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J 



•HARPER'S* 

LI BRARY-OF-AMERICAN- FICTION 


COUSIN POLLY’S 


GOLD MINE 


MRS. A. E. PORTER 


PRICE 40 CENTS 


NUMBER 10 


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HARPER’S LIBRARY OF AMERICAN FICTION. 


This series is proving to be good and deserving of 
popularity.— Troy Times. 

Their cheapness, and clean, neat appearance, as well 
as their literary merits, will make them attractive to 
readers of fiction.— LMt/ieran Observer, Philadelphia. 

A series which is drawing upon evidently the best 
literary talent in the couutry.— A. Y. Express. 


1 To this series one looks with confidence for fresh, 
i readabJe, and well-selected Portland Press. 

j The promise of the publishers, that only works 
j of a very high order of literary merit, and of un- 
I exceptionable morals, will be admitted to the se- 
1 ries, is being conscientiously fulfilled. — Sa?! Fran- 
i cisco Post. 


1. ESTHER PENNEFATHER. A Novel. By Alice Perry. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 


The incidents and characters of the book possess a 
fascination that is entirely unique.— JV. Y. Express. 
Full of strength and power.— JVeio Bedford Mercury. 


Of great power, and calculated to attract universal 
attention. Miss Perry has drawn a series of pictures 
that interest and fascinate.— Jiostou Transcript. 


2. JUSTINE’S LOVERS. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. 


A remarkably interesting work. * * * The story is 
full of life and Inwmox.— Independent, 

Racy and vigorous.— Poston Post. 


One of its minor merits is a happy gift of expression, 
a knack of crystallizing a thought in its most com- 
pact, precise, and translucent form. — N. Y. Sun, 


3. MIRIAM’S HERITAGE. A Story of the Delaware River. By Alma Calder. 8vo, 
Paper, 75 cents. 


May be ranked among the best of the more modern 
novels that have attempted to depict American life. 
It has many strong recommendations to favorable 


notice, but none more worthy than the pleasing 
nuconventiouality that distinguishes the conduct of 
the plot. — Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 


4. MAG. A Story of To-Day. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


The touching plot is developed with a skill in which 
grace and delicacy are blended with vividness and 
force.— Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 


Is entitled to a place among the most pleasing works 
of American fiction. — Rochester Express. 

Strong in dramatic portraiture iV. Y. Evening Post. 


5. COLONEL DUNWOHDIE, MILLIONAIRE. A Story of To-Day. 8vo, Paper, 


75 cents. 

Its characters are all finely drawn, and its pictures 
of Southern life since the war are admirably well 
done.— Louisville Courier-Journal. 


A fair, unprejudiced picture of the South as it is to- 
day, which should be read from one end of the coun- 
try to the other. — N. Y. Express. 


6. KILROGAN COTTAGE. A Novel. 

Well written, and full of pleasing incidents. It 
is sufficiently exciting to hold the attention of the 
most exacting novel-reader.— Albany Journal. 


By Matilda Despard. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. 

A story of Irish life, with a good plot and a number 
of cleverly-depicted characters. * * * Told with much 
animation and skill.— Saturday Eve. Gazette, Boston. 


7. BLUSH ROSES. A Novel. By Clara Francis Morse. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


“‘Blush Roses’ is a bright and fascinating novel, 
written in an animated and unaffected style. The story 
opens ill Paris, whence the scene is changed to Lon- 


don, and then to Dresden ; and the descriptions given 
of social life in these cities are original and charming. 
The work is attractive for its freshness and simplicity.” 


8. OLD SLIP WAREHOUSE. A Novel. By Mary A. Denison. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. 

“This is an unusually good novel, and contains sev- ^ expiession, and shows remarkable delicacy and re- 
eral very eftective scenes, worked out with admirable finement throughout. The dialogue is terse, pointed 
skill. The author is very felicitous in her style of and dramatic.” ’ 


9. LIKE UNTO LIKE. A Novel. By Sherwood Bonner. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 


“This brilliant novel is from the pen of a writer of 
original genius, ripe cultivation, and artistic power. 
The purpose of the story is the illustration of South- 


ern society after the close of the war. The style is 
animated and effective, and many passages are mas- 
terly in their pathos and power.” 


10. COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 

Paper, 40 cents. 

' “This work is remarkable for its delineation of 
character and its strength of natural pathos. The 
love story which runs through it forms a beautiful 
pastoral. The author understands how to make 


A Novel. By Mrs. A. E. Porter. 8vo, 

everything pertaining to rural life intensely real and 
interesting — farm life in New England being de- 
scribed in a series of idyllic pictures. Cousin Polly is 
one of the best drawn characters in American fiction." 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

^ Sent by viail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. 

Harper's Library of American Fiction" will be supplied in half leather binding, paper sides, 
at 25 cents per volume, net, in addition to the price of the respective volumes in paper covers. 


HAKPEE’S LIBRARY OF SELECT MOTELS. 


Messrs. IlARrER & Brothers beg leave to call attention to the following revised 
and enlarged list ot their “ Library of Select Novels,” and to the reduced prices. 

The list has been increased in number and interest by the addition of many works 
of fiction by leading novelists of the day, whose productions have hitherto appeared in 
more expensive form [see numbers 493 to 595 of accompanying list]. The series has 
been long before the public, and its interest and sterling value have been generally 
recognized. Well-informed readers of fiction have considered the appearance of a 
novel in this series to be always a guarantee of merit. 


PRICE 


1. Pelham. By Biilwer $ 40 

2. The Diriowued. By Buhver 50 

3. Devereiix. By Buhver 40 

4. Paul (Jlitford. By Buhver 40 

5. Eugene Aram. By Buhver 85 

C. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Buhver 25 

7. The Czarina. By Mrs. llofland 40 

8. Rienzi. By Buhver 40 

9. Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell. 30 

10. The Kabob at Home 35 

11. Ernest Maltravers. By Buhver 35 

12. Alice; or, The My.steries. By Bulwer 35 

13. The Last of the Barons. By Buhver 50 

14. Forest Days. By James 40 

15. Adam Brown, the Merchant. By II. Smith ... 35 

1(5. Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Buhver 20 

17. The Home. By Miss Bremer 35 

18. Tlie Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 40 

19. The False Heii’. By James 40 

20. The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 35 

21. Nina. By Miss Bremer 35 

22. The President’s Daughters. By Miss Bremer. . 20 

23. The Banker’s Wife. By Mrs. Gore 35 

?4. The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 20 

25. New Sketches of Every-day Life, By Miss Bremer 35 

2(5. Arabella Stuart. By James 35 

27. The Grumbler. By Miss Pic’icering 35 

28. The Unloved One. By Mrs. Holland 4( 

29. Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt 20 

30. The Heretic. By Lajetchnikoff 40 

31. The Jew, By Spindler 50 

32. Arthur. By Sue 40 

33. Chatsworth. By Ward.. 30 

34. The Prairie Bird. ByC. A, Murray 50 

3.5. Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 35 

3(5. Rose d’Albi-et. By James 40 

37. The Triumphs of T’ime. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

38. The H Family. By Miss Bremer 40 

39. The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering 30 

40. Arrah Neil. By James 35 

41. TlieJilt 35 

42. Tales from the German 25 

43. Arthur Arundel. By H. Smith 40 

44. Agincourt. By James 40 

45. The Regent’s Daughter 35 

40, The Maid of Honor. 25 

47. Safia. By De Beauvoir 25 

48. Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 40 

49. The Improvisatore. By Andersen 30 

50. The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Grey 40 

51. Veronica. By Zschokke 25 

52. Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 35 

5.3. Wyoming 30 

54. De Rohan. By Sue 40 

5.5. Self. By the Author of “Cecil” 50 

5(5, 'I'he Smuggler. By J ames 50 

57. The Breach of Promise 35 

58. 1’ar.sonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 20 

59. A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 35 

GO. The W’hite Slave . 50 

Cl. The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey 35 

C2. Amaury. By Dumas 25 

C3. The Author’s Daughter, By Mary Howitt. ... 20 

64. Only a Fiddler! Ac. By Andersen 50 

C.5. The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 40 

GG. The Foster-Brother. Edited by Leigh Hunt.. . 40 

G7. Love and Mesmerism. By 11. Smith 50 

08. Ascanio. By Dumas 50 

G9. Lady of Milan, Edited by Mrs. Thomson 50 

70. The Citizen of Prague GO 

71. The Royal Favorite, By Mrs. Gore 35 

72. The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore 35 

73. The Elve.s, Ac. ByTieck 40 

74. 7.5. The Step-Mother. By James GO 

70. Jessie’s Flirtations 30 I 


PRICE 

77. Chevalier d’llarmental. By Dumas $ 35 

78. Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore 35 

79. The Commander of Malta. By Sue 25 

80. The Female Minister 25 

81. Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

82. The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Rowcroft 40 

83. The Chronicles of Clovernook 20 

84. Genevieve, By Lamartine 20 

85. Livonian Tales 20 

8(5. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 20 

87. Father Darcy, By Mrs. Marsh 40 

88. Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 40 

89. Heidelberg. By James 40 

90. Lucretia. By Bulwer 40 

91. Beauchamp. By James 40 

92. 94. Fortescue. 15y Knowles 50 

93. Daniel Denison, Ac. By Mrs. Holland 30 

95. Cinq-Mars.' By De Vigny 40 

96. Woman’s Trials, By Mrs. S. C. Hall ■ 50 

97. The Castle of Ehrensteiu. By James 35 

98. Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 40 

99. Roland Cashel. By Level*. Illustrated 75 

100. Martins of Cro’ Martin. By Lever 60 

101. Russell. By James 40 

102. A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald 30 

103. Norman’s Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

104. Alamance 40 

105. Margaret Graham. By James 20 

106. The Wayside Cross. By E. H. Milman 20 

107. The Convict. By James 35 

108. Midsummer Fve. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 25 

109. Jane Eyre. By Cun*er Bell 40 

110. The Last of the Fairies. By James 20 

111. Sir Theodore Broughton. By James 40 

112. Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 50 

113. 114. Harold. By Bulwer 60 

115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 40 

116. Gowrie. By James 35 

117. A Whim and its Consequences. By James 40 

118. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. By G. H. 

Lewes 50 

119. The Discipline of Life 40 

120. Thirty Years Since. By James 50 

121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell 40 

122. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By Thackeray 20 

123. The Forgery. By James 40 

124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 20 

125. 126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 50 

127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

128. My Uncle the Curate 40 

129. The Woodman. By James 50 

130. The Green Hand. A “Short Yarn” 50 

131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 50 

132. Shirley. By Currer Bell 50 

133. The Ogilvies 35 

1.34. Constance Lyndsay, By G. C. H 30 

135. Sir Edward Graham. By Miss Sinclair 50 

136. Hands not Hearts. By Miss Wilkinson 30 

137. The Wilmingtons, By Mrs, Marsh 35 

138. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 30 

139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 50 

140. The Maid of Orleans 50 

141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 40 

142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 35 

143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton 35 

144. Pride and Irresolution 35 

145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 40 

146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell 30 

147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. Marsh 25 

148. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trollope 40 

149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 35 

1.50. Singleton Fontenoy, R.N. By Hannay 40 

151. Olive. By the Author of “ The Ogilvies” 35 

1.52. Henry Smeaton. By James 60 

153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh 35 


o 


llarper^s Library of Select Novels. 


TEICE 

HARPER’S Library of Select Kovels — 
Continued. 

154. The Commissioner, Bv James $ 60 

155. The Wife’s Sister. By Mrs. llubback 35 

156. The Gold Worshipers 35 

157. The Daughter of Night. ByFullom 35 

158. Stuart of Dunleath. By lion. Caroline Norton. 35 

159. Arthur Conway. By Captain E. H. Milman . . 40 

160. The Fate. By James 40 

161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly. . . 35 

162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 

163. The Tutor’s Ward 30 

164. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury 50 

165. Kavenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 50 


167. The Head of the Family. By Miss Mulock 50 

168. Darien. By Warburtoii 35 

169. Falkenburg 50 

170. The Daltons. By Lever 75 

171. Ivar; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss Carlen. . . 35 

172. Pequinillo. By James 40 

173. Anna Hammer. By Temme .' 40 

174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James 25 

175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 50 

176. 177. My Novel. By Buhver 75 

178. Katie Stewart 20 

179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 40 

180. Agnes Sorel. By James 40 

ISl. Agatha’s Husband. By the Author of “ Olive” 35 

182. Villette. By Currer Bell 50 

183. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen 35 

184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D’Orsay 30 

185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 50 

186. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 40 

187. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever 60 

188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 50 

189. Quiet Heart 20 

190. Aubrey. By Mm. Marsh 50 

191. Ticonderoga. By James 40 

192. Hard Times. By Dickens 25 

193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey S5 

194. The Mother’s Kecompense. By Grace Aguilar. 50 

195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 60 

196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell 40 

197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 40 

198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 30 

199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

200. The Old Dominion. By James 40 

201. John Halifax, By the Author of ‘‘Olive,” Ac. 50 

202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs, Marsh 35 

203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 

204. Leonora d’Orco. By James 40 

205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 30 

206. The Rose of Ashunst. By Mrs. Marsh 35 

207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphaut 50 

208. Scenes of Clerical Life 50 

209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell 20 

210. 211, Gerald FitzgeralL By Lever 40 

212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 40 

213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 20 

214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. Drury 60 

215. The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 50 

216. One of Them. By Lever 50 

217. A Day’s Ride. By Lever. Illustrated 40 

218. Notice to Quit. By Wills 40 

219. A Strange Story. Illustrated 50 

220. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By Trollope 35 

221. Abel Drake’s -Wife. By John Saunders 50 

222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By J. 0. Jeaffreson. 50 

223. The Professor’s Lady, Illustrated 20 

224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock. 30 

225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 40 

226. Barrington, By Lever 40 

227. Sylvia’s Lovers. By Mrs, Gaskell 40 

228. A First Friendship 25 

229. A Dark Night’s Work. By Mm. Gaskell 25 

230. Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt. Illustrated. . 30 

231. St. Olave’s. By Eliza Tabor 40 

232. A Point of Honor 30 

233. Live it Down. By Jeaffreson 60 

234. Martin Pole, By Saunders 30 

235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby 40 

236. Eleanor’s Victory. By M. E. Braddon. Ill’s, 60 

237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 35 

238. John Marchmont’s I^egacy. By M. E. Braddon 50 

239. Annis Warleigh's Fortunes. By Holme Lee. , . 5() 

240. The Wife’s Evidence. By Wills 40 

241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B, Edwards. ... 50 

242. Cousin Phillis ; 20 

243. What will he do with It? By Bulwer 75 

244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards. .. 25 

245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray. Illustrated. ... 25 

246. Maurice Dering. By Geo. Ijiwrence 25 


PEICB 


HARPER’S Library of Select Kovels — 
Continued. 

247. Margaret Denzil’s History $ 50 

248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala, Ill’s. 60 

249. Mattie : a Stray 40 

250. My Brother’s V ife. By Amelia B. Edwards.. . 25 

251. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanii 40 

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray 20 

253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 35 

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 40 

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 40 

256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 40 

257. Belial 30 

258. Carry’s Confession 50 

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Edwards 35 

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Edwards .... 30 

261. Guy Deverell. By J. S. Le Fanu 40 

262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia B. Edwards. 

Illustrated 50 

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope 35 

264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

265. Walter Goring. By Annie ’i'homas 40 

266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50 

267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo. Il- 

lustrated 50 

268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

269. True History of a Little Ragamuffin. By James 

Greenwood 35 

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A First 

Friendship” 60 

271. ?ans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 35 

272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 35 

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates 40 

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George Eliot 50 

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saunders 50 

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu 30 

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 40 

278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell. . 50 

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. Linton. . . 50 

280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By C. Clarke 25 

281. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles Lever. 50 

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

283. Cradock Nowell. By R. 1). Blackmore 60 

284. Bernthal. From the German of L. Miihlbach. 30 

285. Rachel’s Secret 40 

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s., 50 

287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 

Illustrated 25 

288. Played Out. By Annie Thomas. 40 

289. Black Sheep. l?y Edmund Yates 40 

290. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn Linton 35 

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 40 

292. Raymond’s Heroine 40 

293. Mr. Wynyard’s IVard. By Holme Lee 25 

294. Alec Forbes. By George IMacdonald 50 

295. No Man’s Friend. By F. AV. Robinson 50 

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 40 

297. Caste 35 

298. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs. Eiloart 40 

299. Circe. By Babington White 35 

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S, Le Fanu,. . 50 

301. Carlyon’s Year. By James Payn 25 

302. 'I’he Waterdale Neighbors 35 

303. Mabel’s Progress 40 

304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald. Ill’s 40 

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Miss Carlen 25 

306. Playing for High Slakes. By Annie Thom- 

as. Illustrated 25 

307. Margaret’s Engagement 25 

308. One of the Family. By James Payn 25 

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By a Bai rister. 35 

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. By Miss Braddon... 35 

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By Eliza Tabor 30 

313. Poor Humanity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. A, Lawrence. AVith an 

Illustration 40 

315. A Lost Name. By J. S. I.e Fanu 40 

316. liOve or Alarriage By AA”. Black 30 

317. Dead-Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 

318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 35 

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By Lever. 

Illusti'ated 60 

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik SO 

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By the Author of ‘‘ Ra- 

chel’s Secret” 35 

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “ Raymond’s He- 

roine.” 50 

323. That Boy of Norcotl’s. By Charles Lever, Il- 

lustrated 25 

324. In Silk Attire. By AV. Black 35 

.32.5. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 20 

326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 40 


Harper’s Library of Select JVbvels. 


3 


PRICE 


HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 
Continued. 

327. IMcta’s Faitli. Ity Eliza Tabor $ 35 

H2S. Found Dead. Dy James I’ayn 25 

32'J. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Vales 85 

830. The Minister’s Wife. By Miv. Oliphaiit 50 

381. A Beggar on Horseback. By James Payn 35 

332. Kitty. By M. Betham Edwards 35 

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas 35 

334. Hirell. By John Saunders 40 

335. Under Foot. By Alton Olyde. Illustrated... 40 

330. So Runs the Woi Id Away. By Mrs. A. (J. Steele. 35 

337. Baflled. By Julia Goddard. Illustrated 50 

33S. Beneath the Wheels 50 

330. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 40 

340. Gwendoline’s Harvest. By James Payn 25 

341. Kilraeny. By William Black 35 

342. John: A Love Story. By Mrs. Oliphaut 25 

343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50 

344. Veronica. By the Author of “Mabel's Pi ogress” 50 

345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author of “Gil- 

bert Rugge” 30 

340. Estelle Russell 5U 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author of “ Ray- 

mond’s Heroine” 40 

348. Which is the Heroine ? 40 

340. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer Collins.. 35 

350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 35 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. By A. 

Trollope CO 

352. From Thistles — Grapes ? By Mrs. Eiloart. ... 35 

3.53. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 40 

354. Sir Harry Hutspur of Humblethwaite. By 

Anthony Trollope. Illustrated 35 

3.5.5. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon .50 

3.50. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 35 

3.57. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn. Ill’s.... 40 

358. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. . 50 

350. Monarch of .Mincing-Lane. By W. Black. Ill’s. 50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 40 

361. Anteros. By the Author of “Guy Livingstone.” 40 

362. Her Lord and blaster. By Mrs. Ross Church. . 30 

363. Won — Not AVooed. By James Payn 35 

364. For Lack of Gold. By Charles Gibbon 35 

365. Anne Furness 50 

366. A Daughter of Heth. By W. Black 35 

367. Durnton Abbey. By '1'. A. Trollope 40 

SOS. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Farjeon 40 

360. Levels of Arden. By M. E. Biaddon. Ill’s. 50 

370. Fair to See. By L. W. M. Lockhart 40 

371. Cecil’s Tryst. By James Payn 30 

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid 50 

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas 25 

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 35 

375. A Bridge of Glass. By F. W. Robinson SO 

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham 50 

377. A Good Investment. By Wm. Flagg. Ill’s.. 35 

378. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel lloey 40 

379. Ombra. By Mrs. Olipbant 50 

380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 30 

381. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Blackmore 50 

382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon 30 

883. A Girl’s Romance, and Other 'Pales. By F. W. 

Robinson SO 

384 Dr. Wainwright’s Patient. By Edmund Yates. 35 

385. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie Thomas 50 

886. A Woman’s Vengeance. By Janies Payn 35 

387. Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. By VV. Black. 50 

383. To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

389. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon 35 

390. Godolphin. By Bulwer 35 

391. Leila. By Bulwer. Illustrated 25 

392. Keuelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. Ill’s.. 5o 

393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet Martineau 50 

394. Murphy’s Master. By James Payn 20 

395. The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins 30 

396. “‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” By Annie 

Thomas 30 

397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illustrated 50 

398. 'Poo Soon. By .Mrs. Macquoid 30 

399.i|Strangers and I’ilgrims. By Miss Braddon. Ill’s. 50 
409 .Ja Simpleton. By Charles Reade 35 

401. *The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 25 

402. Joseph the Jew. By Mi.ss V. W. Johnson 40 

403. Her Face, was Her Fortune. By F. W. Robinson. 40 

404. A Princess of 'Phule. By W. Black 50 

405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson 50 

406. The Blue Ribbon. By Eliza Tabor 40 

407. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By A. Trollope 

Illustrated 20 

409. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss Braddon... 50 
409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of “ Caste”. . . 35 


PRICE 

HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 
Continued. 

410. Through Fire and Water. By Frederick Talbot. 

Illustrated $ 20 

411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Trolloi)e 30 

412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Braddon 50 

413. At Her .Mercy. By James Payn 30 

414. Ninety-Three. By Victor Hugo.. Ill’s 25 

415. For Love and Life. By Mrs. Oliphant 60 

416. Doctor Thorne. By Anthony 'Prollope 50 

417. The Be.-t of Husbands. By James Payn 25 

418. Sylvia’s Choice. By Georgiana M. Craik 30 

419. A Sack of Gold. By Miss V. W. Johnson.... {;5 

420. Squire Arden. By Mrs. Dliphant 60 

421. Lorna Doone. By R. D. lUackmore. Ill’s... 60 

422. The 'Preasure Hunters. By Geo.Manville Fenn. 25 

423. Lost for Love. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Ill’s. 50 

424. Jack’s Sister. By Miss Dora Havers 60 

425. Aileen Ferrers. By Susan Morley 30 

426. The Love that Lived. By Mrs. Eiloart 30 

427. In Honor Bound. By Charles Gibbon 35 

428. Jessie Trim. By B. L. Farjeon 35 

429. Hagarene. By George A. Lawrence 35 

430. Old Myddelton’s Money. By Mary Cecil Hay. 25 

431. At the Sign of the Silver Flagon. By Farjeon.. 25 

432. A Strange World. B}* Miss Braddon 40 

433. Hope Meredith. By Eliza 'J’abor 35 

434. The Maid of Killeena. By William Black.... 40 

435. The Blossoming of an Aloe. By Mrs. Hoey. . . 30 

436. Safely Married. By the Author of “ Caste.”. . 25 

437. The Story of Valentine and his Brother. By 


Mrs. Oliphant 50 

438. Our Detachment. By Katharine King. 1,5 

439. Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon 20 

440. Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore 60 

441. Walter’s Word. By James Payn 50 

442. Playing the Mischief. By J. W. De Forest... 60 

443. The Lady Superior. By Eliza F. Pollard.... 15 

444. Iseulte. By the Author of “ Vera,” “Hotel du 

Petit St. Jean,” &c 30 

445. Eglantine. By Eliza Tabor 40 

446. Ward or Wife ? Illustrated 25 

447. Jean, By Mrs. Newman 35 

44S. The Calderwood Secret. By Miss V.W. Johnsoii 40 

449. Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. Ill’s.... 15 

450. Healey 35 

451. Hostages to Fortune. By Miss Braddon. I.l’s. 50 

4.52. The Queen of Connauglit 35 

453. Off the Roll. By Katharine King I 60 

454. Halves. By James Payn 30 

455. The Squire’s Legacy. By IMary Cecil Hay... 25 

456. Victor and Vanquished. By Mary Cecil Hay. 26 

457. Owen G Wynne’s Great Work. By Lady Augusta 

Noel 30 

458. His Natural Life. By Marcus Claike 50 

4.59. The Curate in Charge. By Mrs. Oliphant ... . 20 

460. Pausanias the Spartan. By Lord Lytlon 25 

461. Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. E. Braddon.. 40 

462. 'Phe Dilemma. By the Author of “ The Battle 

of Dorking.” 50 

463. Hidden Perils. By Mary C( cil Hay 2.5 

464. Cripps, the Carrier. By R. 1). Blackmore. Ill’s. 50 

46.5. Rose Turquand. By Ellice Hopkin- 35 

466. As Long as ishe Lived. By F. W. Robinson. . . 60 

467. Israel Mort, Overman. By John Saunders. .. . 50 

468. Phoebe, Junior. By Mrs. Oliphant 35 

469. A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred 25 

470. The Laurel Bush. By the Author of “John 

Halifax, Gentleman.” Illustrated 25 

471. Miss Nancy’s I’ilgrimage. By Virginia W. 

Johnson 40 

472. The Arundel Motto. By Mary Cecil Hay. ... 25 

473. Azalea. By Cecil Clayton 30 

474. Daniel Deronda. By George l-.liot 50 

475. The Sun-Maid. By the Author of “ Artiste.”. 35 

476. Nora’s Love 'Pest. By Mary Cecil Hay 25 

477. Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. Illustrated 50 

478. Madcap Violet. '■ By William Black 50 

479. From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton. 20 

480. TheDuchessofRosemary Lane. By B.L. Farjeon. 35 

481. Anne Wanvick. By Georgiana M. Chaik 25 

482. Weavers and Weft. By Miss Braddon 25 

483. The Golden Butterfly. By the Authors of 

“ When the Ship Comes Home,” <fec 40 

484. Juliet’s Guardian. By Mrs. 11. Lovett Cameron. 

Illustrated 40 

48.5. IMar’s White Witch, By G. Douglas 50 

486. Heaps of Money. ByW. E. Non is 25 

487. The American Senator. By Anthony Trollope. 50 

488. Mrs. .Arthur. By Mrs. Oliphant 40 

489. Winstowe. By Mrs, Leith- Adams 25 

490. Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary Patrick. . . 25 


4 


Harper’' 6 Library of Select Hovels. 


^ 

PKIOE 

HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 


Continued. 

491. Romola. 13y George Eliot. Illustvated $ 50 

492. Caritii. By Mrs. Uliphant. Illustrated 50 

493. Middlemarch. By George Eliot 15 


494. For Her Sake. By E. W. Robinson. Ill’s 60 

495. Second-Cousin Sarah. By F.W. Robinson. Ill’s.. 50 

49G. Little Kate Kirby. By F. W. Robinson. Ill’s. 50 
497. Luttrell of Arran. By Charles Lever 60 


49S. Lord Kilgobbin. By Charles Lever. Ill’s. ... 50 

409. Tony Butler. By Charles Lever 6U 

600. Breaking a Butterfly. By George A. Lawrence. 

Illustrated 65 

501. Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy. By Charles Dickens. . 10 

502. The Mystery of Edwin Drood. By Charles 

Dickens. Illustrated 25 

503. The Parisians. By Bulwei’. Illustrated 60 

504. Stone Edge. With an Illustration 20 

505. The Rule of the Monk. By Garibaldi 30 

506. Inside’. By W. M. Baker. Illustrated 75 

507. Carter Quarterman. By W. M. Baker. Ill’s.. CO 

508. Three Feathers. By Wm. Black. Ill’.s 50 

509. Bound to John Company. By Miss Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

510. Birds of Prey. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 

511. The Prey of the Gods. By Mrs. Ross Church. 80 

512. The Woman in White. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s. 60 

513. The Two Destinies. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s. 35 

514. Tlie Law and the Lady. By Wilkie Collins. 

Illustrated 50 

515. Poor Miss Finch. By Wilkie Collins. III’.-'. .. 60 

516. No Name. By Wilkie Collins. Illustrated... 60 

517. The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s tO 

518. Man and Wife. By Wilkie Collins. Ill’s 60 

519. Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. Illustrated... 60 

520. My Daughter Elinor. By Frank Lee Benedict. 80 

521. John Worthington’s Name. By F. Lee Benedict 75 

522. Miss Dorothy’s Charge. By F. Lee Benedict. . 75 

523. Miss Van Kortland. By Frank Lee Benedict. . 60 

524. St. Simon’s Niece. By Frank Lee Benedict. .. 60 

525. Mr. Vaughan’s Heir. By Frank Lee Benedict. 75 

526. Captain Brand. By H. A. Wise. Illustrated. 75 

.527. Sooner or Later. By Shirley Brooks. Ill’s. . . 80 

523. The Gordian Knot. By Shirley Brooks. With 

an Illustration .50 

529. The Silver Cord. By Shirley Brooks. Ill’s... 75 

.530. Cord and Creese. By James De Mille. Ill’s. . . CO 

531. The Living Link. By James De Mille. Ill’s.. CO 

532. The American Baron. By James De Mille. Ill’s. 50 

533. The Cryptogram. By James De Mille. Ill’s... 75 

534. The King of No-Land. By B. L. Farjeon. Ill’s. 25 

535. An Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon. Ill’s 80 

536. Blade-o’-Grass. By B. L. Farjeon. Illusti-ated. 30 

537. Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L. Far- 

jeon. Illustrated .35 

538. Golden Grain. By B. L. Farjeon. Illustrated. 85 

539. Loudon’s Heart. By B. L. Farjeon. Illustrated. 60 

540. Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. Farjeon. Ill’s. 30 

541. Not Dead Yet. By John Cordy Jeafifreson. . . . 60 

542. The Island Neighbors. By Mrs. A. B. Black- 

well. Illustrated 60 

543. The Woman’s Kingdom. By Miss Mulock. Ill’s. 60 

544. Hannah. By Miss Mulock. With Three Ill’s. . 85 

515. A Brave Lady. By Miss Mulock. Illustrated. 60 

546. My Mother and I. By Miss Mulock. Illustrated. 40 

547. Chronicles of Carlingford. By Mrs. Oliphaut 60 

548. A Son of the Soil. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

549. The Perpetual Curate. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

550. Old Kensington. By Miss Thackeray. Ill’s.. 60 

551. Miss Angel. By Miss Thackeray. Illustrated. 50 

552. Miss Thackeray’s Miscellaneous Writings. H’d. 90 

5.53. Vanity Fair. By W. M.Thackerajn Illustrated. 80 

554. The History of Pendennis. By W. M. Thack- 
eray, Illustrated 7.5 

5.5.5, The Virginians. By W, M. Thackeray. Ill’s..* fO 

5.56. The Neivcomes. By W. M, Th.ackeray. Ill’s.. 90 

557. The Adventures of Philip. By W. M. Thack- 

ei’ay. Illustrated 60 


rkioz 

HARPER’S Library of Select Novels — 
Continued. 

558. Henry Esmond, and Lovel the Widower. By 

W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated $ 60 

559. Put Yourself in His Place. By Charles Reade. 

Illustrated 50 

560. A Terrible Temptation. By Charles Reade. Ill’s 40 

561. The Cloister and the Hearth, By Charles Reade. 50 

562. The Wandering Heir. By Charles Reade. Iir.s. 25 

563. Hard Cash, By Charles Reade. Illustrated.. 50 

564. Griffith Gaunt. By Charles Reade, Ill’s 40 

565. It is Never Too Late to Mend. By Charles 

Reade 50 

5G6. Love Me Little, Love Me Long. By Charles 

Reade. With an Illustration 35 

567. Foul Play. By Charles Reade 35 

568. White Lies. By Charles Reade 40 

569. Peg Woffington, Christie Johnstone, and Other 

8tories. By Charles Reade 50 

570. A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. With 

Two Illustrations 60 

571. Orley F^irm. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s.... SO 

572. The Vicar of Bullhampton. By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 80 

573. The Way We Live Now. By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 90 

574. Phineas Finn, By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s.. 75 

575. Phineas Redux. By Anthony Trollope. Ih’s.. 75 

576. Ralph the Heir. By Anthony Trollope. Ill’s. 75 

577. The Eustace Diamonds. By Anthony Trollope. 80 

578. The Last Chronicle of Barset. By Anthony 

Trollope. Illustrated 90 

579. The Golden Lion of Granpere. By Anthony 

Trollope. Illustrated 40 

580. The Prime Minister. By Anthony Trollope. . . 60 

581. Can You Forgive Her ? By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 80 

582. He Knew He Was Right. By Anthony Trol- 

lope. Illustrated 80 

583. The Small House at Allington. By Anthony 

Trollope. Illustrated 75 

584. The Sacristan’s Household. By Sirs. F. E. Trol- 

lope. Illustrated .50 

585. Lindisfaru Chase, By T. A. Trollope 60 

586. Hidden Sin. Illustrated 60 

5S7, My Enemy’s Daughter. By Justin McCarthy. 

Illustrated 50 

588. My Husband’s Crime. By M. R. Housekeeper. 

Illustrated 50 

589. Stretton. By Heniy Kingsley. With an Illus- 

tration 35 

.590. Ship Ahoy ! By G. M. Fenn. Illustrated 35 

591. Debenham’s Vow. By Amelia B. EdAvards. Ill’s 50 

592. Wives and Daughters. By Mi-s. Gaskell. Il- 

lustrated 60 

593. Recollections of Eton. Illustrated 35 

.5514. Under the Ban. By M. I’Abbe * * ■* 60 

595. The Rape of the Gamp. By C. AV. Mason. 

Illustrated 75 

596. Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. By R. D. Black- 

more 50 

.597. AVhat He Cost Her. By James Payn 40 

598. Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By AMlliam 

Black 50 

599. A Young Wife’s Story. By llarriette Bowra., 25 

600. A JeAvelofaGirl. By the Author of “ Qiieenie.” 35 

601. An Open Verdict. By Miss M. E. Br.addon. . . 35 

602. A Modern Alinister. A’’ol. I. Illustrated 35 

603. A Modern Minister. Vol. 11. (In Press.) 

604. Young MusgraA^e. By Airs. Oliphant 40 

605. Two Tales of Married Life. By Georgiana AI. 

.Craik and AI. C. Stirling 30 

606. The Last of the Haddons. By Mrs. NcAvman. 2.5 

607. The AA'reck of the “Grosvenor” 30 

60S. By Proxy. By James Payn 35 

609. By Celia’s Arbor. By AA’alter Besant and 

James Rice .50 

610. Deceivers Ever. By Airs. Cameron 30 

611. Less Black than AAVre Painted. By James I’ayn. 35 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE 


% 



By MRS. A. E. PORTER 



1878 . 

Of wash\’:11» 
<> 


NEW YORK 

& BROTHER.S, PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1878 


HARPER 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by 
HARPER & BROTHERS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION. 

The Key-note to a Life 9 

CHAPTER 1. 

The “ Huci^leberry ” Woman. — “ Go-Down ” Folks 13 

CHAPTER H. 

Success in Life. — “Awkward Si” 30 

CHAPTER HI. 

Farm Life in “Go-Down” 45 

CHAPTER IV. 

Disappointment and Sorrow 55 

CHAPTER V. 

Defeated Ambition ; 63 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Young Farmer’s Journal 71 

CHAPTER VH. 

How THE Gold Mine was Found. — Aunt BufsEY’s Dream Fulfilled 85 

CHAPTER VHI. 

What Shall I do with my Money? — How to Make a Will 96 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Fortune from the Gold Mine, and what came of it 106 




COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THE KEY-NOTE TO A LIFE. 


TN a low -roofed, one -story house, 
browned by the suns and battered 
by the storms of more than half a cen- 
tury, and which stood on the edge of 
a pasture so full of rocks that no 
plough could run a furrow through it, 
sat a worn and weary woman, not yet 
past middle life. By her side, on a 
stool, sat a little boy. It was a sum- 
mer evening. The door stood open, 
and the breeze whispered gently amidst 
the branches of the great elm that 
shaded the place. The house was 
plain, and fast going to decay. N'o 
paling enclosed the green spot before 
the door, while the pastures on each 
side were surrounded by rough stone- 
walls. 

The hand of man Had done nothing 
to beautify the spot, but pitiful Nature 
had given the great elm to shade and 
bless the place, and had flung the 


sweetbrier and clematis over the stone- 
fences. 

There were low-lying hills in the 
distance, while in the front of the farm 
the land sloped gradually to the sea, 
which was about three miles distant. 

Three generations of the same name 
had lived on this farm, and had glean- 
ed only scanty support from the soil. 
But they clung to it with strange te- 
nacity, loving the great moss- covered 
bowlders as if they were the guardians 
of their homes. 

Poverty was a heritage, which they 
took, as they did the family features, 
without question or remonstrance. 

The hard life they lived told heavily 
on the wives and mothers. They were 
mere household drudges, with little 
beauty in their daily lives. Now and 
then one would struggle for a garden, 
longing to gratify her sense of beauty 


10 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


with roses, pinks, and lilies — such flow- 
ers as need little culture and pay rich- 
ly for common tendance ; but the men 
on a farm were slow to spade, and care- 
less about garden fences, and so indif- 
ferent to flowers that they would mis- 
take a lily for an artichoke, a gladiolus 
for an onion. 

Poor Mrs. Rogers was a gentle, lov- 
ing mother, who had inherited a fair 
share of beauty ; and though lines of 
weariness and pain had marred her 
comeliness, the spirit which had borne 
her burdens meekly had given that 
in return which was more winning 
than mere comeliness of person. She 
wore a dark calico wrapper, and a 
shawl was thrown over her shoulders, 
as if that summer-evening air was cool 
to her delicate frame. The boy at her 
side was about seven or eight years 
of age, dressed in a miniature farmer’s 
frock of blue -striped cotton drilling, 
over a pair of coarse linen trousers. 
His hair was thick and light, the color 
of tow, and his face freckled. His 
mouth was large, and as his hair was 
cut straight and fell over his forehead, 
there was but a narrow strip between 
eyes and hair. The reader will see 
that he was not a handsome child — 
certainly not as he now sat, with his 
head bent over his book, hiding from 
view his eyes, the only beautiful feat- 
ure about him. These were large, of 
deep-blue color, and shaded by brows 
and eyelashes much darker than his 
hair. 

He was reading the Bible to his 
mother, or rather spelling it out, for he 
was an indifferent reader. Be kind- 
ly” [here he stopped to spell] “af- 
fec — ” “Affectioned, my boy,” said 


the mother. The boy pronounced* the 
word slowly, and went on : “ One to 
another — one to another with brother- 
ly love, in honor pre-fer — ” Prefer- 
ring,” the mother said, “ one another.” 
Then the mother repeated the verse, 
and the boy after her. In the same 
w’ay they went on through the follow- 
ing: “Not slothful in business; fer- 
vent in spirit, serving the Lord ; rejoic- 
ing in hope, patient in tribulation.” 

It took a long while for the boy to 
get even the pronunciation, longer still 
to comprehend the meaning of the 
words. The mother was patient, and 
the child, always happy with her, was 
willing to be taught. When she re- 
peated these words slowly, “ Be kind- 
ly affectioned one to another with 
brotherly love, in honor preferring 
one another,” he turned his eyes up 
to her, and seemed to drink in their 
full meaning. 

“ I think, my boy,” she said, “ that 
we have the key to happiness in these 
words ; it is forgetting self — in honor 
preferring one another. Understand 
me. Never be a coward, and refuse to 
defend the right, because you prefer 
an idle peace to a conflict with wrong. 
What I mean is this; do not live for 
yourself alone; seek the happiness of 
others, and you will be happj^ yourself. 
Now repeat the verses to me.” 

It was with much hesitation and 
some mistakes that the slow learner 
obeyed ; but the task was accomplish- 
ed, and the words impressed on the 
boy’s memory for life. Such minds 
receive impressions slowly, but retain 
them, as steel the lines of the engraver, 
while a touch may mar the outline on 
the wax. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


11 


The boy had scarcely finished, when 
his brother, a handsome, dark- eyed, 
curly-headed little fellow, came bound- 
ing over the stone-wall at the side of 
the house. 

I say. Si, come and help me catch 
‘Old Whitey.’ lie’s got out of his 
pasture into the corn-field, and is a 
crunching down the corn like a grist- 
mill.” 

Si (short for Silas) started at once, 
his bare feet flying over the road, 
showing that if his tongue was slow 
in moving, there was swiftness in his 
feet. When Whitey had been secured, 
the boys returned to their mother, 
when the latter asked of one of them, 

“ Richard, can you say your lesson ?” 

“Yes, ma’am; it is as easy as 
A B C.” 

And he stood up very straight, and 
repeated glibly the verses which Si had 
learned with so much trouble. 

Poor Si’s blue eyes drooped, and he 
looked sad at the thought of his own 
dulness. 

Strangers could hardly be made to 
believe that these two boys were 
twins. Richard was some inches tall- 
er, and superior in strength, as well as 
far more comely in looks. They sel- 
dom quarrelled, for Si gave the pre- 
cedence to his brother, as indeed he 
was obliged to do in all sports that re- 
quired skill and strength; but Si was 
the more efiicient help to his father on 
the farm. ^ 

We will leave the boys for the pres- 
ent — as our story will give their pecu- 
liarities in detail — and take a peep at 
some of the neighbors. 

On one of the rocky bowlders in a 
pasture adjoining the Rogers farm sat 


an old woman and a young girl. The 
old woman’s features were sharp, her 
eyes small and black, bright as glass 
beads, with a shrewd look in them 
which revealed a knowledge of life. 
The young girl looked enough like her 
to be her child. She was a miniature 
copy of the old woman. The girl was 
motherless, and her companion was 
her aunt. They sat looking upon 
tlie rocky pasture, which was thickly 
strewn with whortleberry bushes, on 
which the half-ripened fruit hung, giv- 
ing promise of an abundant crop. 

“I say you’ll make money, Polly, 
this year ; there’s bushels and bushels 
of huckleberries in this ’ere paster.” 

“How soon can I begin to pick, 
Aunt Betsey?” 

“Watch ’em close, child, and pick 
the first ripe ones ; because, you know, 
the first in the market brings a great 
price. You’ll make money, child; it 
is in you, I see, and I tell you money 
is the best friend you can have in this 
world. ’Tain’t no use talkin’ all that 
nonsense about the blessin’ of poverty. 
Your poor father hain’t found it no 
blessin’. And there’s Cousin Silas : 
his poor wife is worked to a natomy, 
’cause she hain’t got money enough to 
pay a hired gal. Save your money, 
Poljy, every cent you can get, and 
don’t you lend it to none of them 
ship-builders and rich men in Oldport. 
Maybe they’ll give you big interest, 
but they’re mighty onsartin. There 
are storms on the sea, and fire in the 
ships. The old Savings-bank, that 
has been running for fifty years with- 
out losing a cent, is safer. But allers 
keep a stockin’ful of silver hid away. 
I will tell you of a good place to hide 


12 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


it, but not here. I wouldn’t even 
whisper it out- doors,” looking cau- 
tiously round as she spoke. 

‘‘I can keep secrets: you know that, 
Aunt Betsey.” 

“ Yes, you are keepin’ one now, and 
you will be rewarded for it. My 
dream will come to pass — I know it 
will, Polly. You will be a rich wom- 
an some day. I may not live till that 
time, but I see it now just as clear as 
I see that big rock yonder. Nothing 
like money, Polly — nothing like mon- 
ey! I am an old woman, and I tell 
you the truth : it is a deal of comfort 
to know, when you lie down at night, 
that you have money a drawin’ interest 
while you sleep, or to think of a stock- 
in’ful of gold and silver hid away, 
viLere nobody can find it but your- 
self.” 

The sun was setting behind the 
range of low hills that lay on the west- 
ern horizon, and the gold and purple 
clouds were glorious in beauty, as tlie 


two rose to go to their homes; but 
their eyes were holden that they saw 
them not. The lichens spread their 
frond-like forms, looking like branches 
of tiny trees, with golden-brown and 
green foliage, upon the rocks around 
them, and the grass beneath their feet 
was sprinkled with field violets and 
star beauties ; but for this woman and 
girl such things were created in vain. 
The gold of the sky could not be gar- 
nered, and the lilies of the field had no 
money value. The huckleberry crop 
was prospective dollars and cents, and 
they went home to dream of quarts 
and gallons of the former, and stock- 
ings filled with the latter. 

Little tow-headed, freckled Si went 
to sleep, thinking of his mother’s gen- 
tle, tired face, and said over his lesson 
once more, wishing, with a sigh, that 
he was as good-looking and could learn 
as quick as Dick, who lay asleep by his 
side, as fine a picture of young boyhood 
as any artist might desire for a model. 



CHAPTER 1. 


THE "HUCKLEBERRY” WOMAN.— "GO-DOWN” FOLKS. 

“ ’Tis a rough land of rock and hill and dale, 

Where dwells no castled lord, nor cabined slave.” 


There is a railroad in Eastern Kew 
England wliich runs through a section 
of country so barren and rocky that 
travellers, as they look out upon the 
long stretches of rocky pastures and 
fields, where only whortleberries and 
sweet-fern bushes grow, wonder how 
human life can be sustained on such a 
sterile soil. Rood after rood of stone- 
wall is seen, and yet the stones thus 
used have left so many kindred behind, 
that children who look out of the car 
windows exclaim, See how stones 
grow here !” 

The land is divided into small farms, 
from ten acres to three or four hun- 
dred each ; but though Dame Nature 
has given her children here a. rough 
land and a stern climate, they seem to 
thrive under her discipline. The little 
farm-houses have an air of comfort 
about them not found in the country 
homes of the more fertile West; while 
now and then a large mansion, with 


grounds tastefully laid out and adorn- 
ed with shade-ti’ees and ample gardens, 
large barns and cemented walls, indi- 
cate wealth and taste. 

In former years there was much 
traffic carried on by the small farmers 
with the people of the larger towns, in 
berries, eggs, poultry, herbs, essences, 
and root-beer. There was a class of 
women, sui generis^ known as “ huckle- 
berry women,” who drove their own 
bony-looking nags — poor animals who, 
if the grass is sweet near the stone 
as meat to the bone, looked as if the 
sweetness had given them neither 
strength nor flesh. They were tame, 
subdued-looking hacks, with the meek 
expression of men who have submit- 
ted to petticoat government. They 
bowed their heads and jogged slowly 
through the streets; while the wom- 
en, bending forward, with a rein in 
each hand and a noise like that of a 
clucking hen, varied by an occasional 


14 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


“ Gee up !” and a slap of the reins, 
urged them to a quicker pace. They 
soon subsided, however, into the slow 
trot, and stopped of their own free- 
will at the houses of regular customers, 
where, if a child was at the door or 
window, came the question so familiar 
to our ears in early life, “ Your raarm 
don’t want no huckleberries to-day, 
does she ?” And, if we were already 
supplied — “ I’ve got diet drink and 
mint-water: don’t you want them nuth-. 
er? Here’s ’stilled rose-water, too; 
go ask your marm if she don’t want it 
for her apple-pies.” 

Polly Currier (shortened by her ru- 
ral neighbors to Polly Kiar) was the 
tradeswoman whom we favored. She 
was a gaunt, brown spinster of uncer- 
tain age, with keen black eyes, sharp 
features, and a small, slender frame 
that seemed all muscle. She was agile 
as a cat, had climbed trees and stone- 
walls from "babyhood, and spent almost 
all her days in the pastures in berry- 
time. She owned a little house and 
two or three acres of rocky land, which 
had been left to her by her father, who 
had reared her from babyhood, her 
mother having died at her birth. 
Her only brother went to sea when a 
mere lad, and had never been heard 
from since the day he sailed from Bos- 
ton, at which time Poll^ was but five 
years old. Her father worked at shoe- 
making in winter, taking the work to 
his own house. This had given Polly 
employment in binding shoes, at which 
she was as expert as at berry -pick- 
ing. 

The interior of Polly’s house had al- 
tered little for fifty years. There were 
only two apartments. In the front 


room was an open fireplace with a 
large flat stone for a hearth, a bedstead 
of oak, two or three rush - bottomed 
chairs, a curious old table with a dozen 
legs, an old clock, and a shoe - bench, 
with the tools upon it, in one corner. 

Her father had been dead more than 
sixteen years, and she had not removed 
these tools from the bench, but had 
covered them with a white cloth bor- 
dered by a deep knitted fringe. 

Father and daughter had not mani- 
fested much affection for each other. 
The old Puritan habit of suppressing 
emotion was inherited by them. Pol- 
ly shed no tears when her father died, 
and the only tokens of respect which 
she showed for him were the broad 
black ribbon on her bonnet and the 
white cover to the shoe-bench. 

The back room was devoted to Pol- 
ly. Here was her bed, with its patch- 
work quilt — a work of art in her eyes, 
and a life-record also, for it contained 
bits of all the calico gowns which her 
mother and herself had worn. A cal- 
ico-printer could have studied the 
progress of the art in this quilt, from 
the old India prints to those of the 
Lowell and Cocheco mills. In one cor- 
ner of the room was a spinning-wheel ; 
in the other, her still, in which she dis- 
tilled her mint and rose water for mar- 
ket ; near this was an old tray, filled 
with dried rose leaves. The wild-roses 
which abound in these pastures line the 
roadside, climb over the rocky bowl- 
ders, and cling lovingly to the stone- 
walls. They are very fragrant, and 
yield a larger quantity of oil than 
many of our cultivated roses. Herbs 
of all kinds hung round Polly’s room, 
interspersed with berry-baskets of va- 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


15 


rious sizes and shapes. The door 
opened upon a back yard, where Polly 
raised her poultry. This room had 
great attractions for the hens and 
chickens, as, whenever Polly spent the 
summer day at home, her ‘‘Shoo! 
shoo 1” might be heard from dawn to 
dewy eve. 

Though Polly lived alone, she did 
not let her tongue suffer for want of 
exercise, for the horse and the hens 
kept this member busy. An old shed 
afforded shelter to Dobbin in winter, 
and the pasture and roadside were his 
s u m m er- q u ar te r s . 

I have given some idea of Polly’s 
home and person. Her dress about 
home was a calico, which hung limp 
and straight, and short enough to clear 
the ankles. It was guiltless of white 
collar or ruff — an addition to dress 
which Polly thought superfluous ; but 
experience in stony pastures had 
taught her the benefit of coarse cot- 
ton stockings of her own knitting, and 
stout shoes, such as her father made 
fifty years ago, and of which she had 
laid up a quantity. Had she not done 
this, the shoddy shoes of the present 
day would have lessened the profits 
of beri*y-picking. When she came to 
town, she wore a green bombazette 
gown, a faded red shawl, bought at 
the time of her mother’s marriage, and 
a somewhat sunburnt straw bonnet, 
with its black ribbon — Polly’s idea of 
“mourning” being fully met by the 
black ribbon. 

Polly was not a favorite with her 
neighbors, for more reasons than one. 
She was annoyed by children, and nev- 
er cared to see them at her house, for 
they plagued the cat, stuck burs into 


Dobbin’s tail, ate her berries, put their 
fingers into her rose leaves, and med- 
dled with her still ; so that whenever 
the little ones toddled to her door, she 
carried them home again. Of course 
the mothers thought her a “ cross old 
maid.” Then it was said (no one 
knew certainly) that she made more 
money than any of the men who work- 
ed their own small farms. This was 
not pleasing to the men ; for wasn’t 
it contrary to the established order of 
things that a woman should make 
more out of a rocky pasture and a bit 
of a garden than they from their ten 
or twenty acres ? 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Richard 
Rogers, her second-cousin, “ if she had 
five hundred dollars in Oldport Sav- 
ings-bank,” to a knot of men who sat 
whittling on the steps of the little 
store, which served also for a post- 
ofiice. 

“I can’t see how she has made it all, 
out of her still and her berries,” was 
the reply. 

These men would have been struck 
dumb with astonishment, could they 
have known that the sum named rep- 
resented but one -third of the actual 
amount which Polly had laid by in 
this mausoleum for old maids’ treas- 
ures. 

A more careful or reticent man 

0 

could not be found than Mr. Richards, 
the treasurer of this institution. He 
never gossipped about the deposits, 
and a single woman felt sure that no 
one would be the wiser as to her earn- 
ings while he was in office. 

By a strange misnomer, the little 
settlement where Polly lived was call- 
ed “ Go-down,” which, as it was an as- 


16 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


cent from the Merrimac, would seem 
absurd, and accounted for only by 
the common phrase among the settlers 
there, “You going down to-day?” or 
“ I go down this morning,” meaning to 
Oldport. As absurd a name is that 
given by railroad men to a station 
near. the town. A traveller new to the 
road is amused to hear, just as this 
beautiful city by the sea looms upon 
the eye, the conductor call out at the 
door of each car, “Know-Nothing.” 
There is a pause, nobody alights, and 
the train is started onward, to make 
ijs next pause at one of the most 
charming places on the coast. Almost 
all the dwellers in Go-down are related. 
It would seem as if all John Rogers’s 
ten children had come over to Amer- 
ica and settled here, disputing their 
title with a family by the name of 
Currier. 

The farm adjoining Polly’s rocky 
nook was owned by the Rogers family, 
and had descended to them from an- 
cestors of the same name, who settled 
there within thirty years after the land- 
ing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth. 

Richard and Silas Rogers were twin- 
brothers, distant cousins to Polly. 
When boys, their farm-life was varied 
by a few terms at Dummer Academy, 
to learn something more than could be 
taught them in the little district school 
at home. Here they met with schol- 
ars from all the neighboring townsj the 
greater number from Oldport. Among 
others was Alice Leigh, daughter of 
one of the wealthy ship-owners of Old- 
port. There is a picture of Alice, tak- 
en when she was a school-girl. It is 
still owned by some of the family. 
She is petite and fair, with blue eyes 


and gold-brown hair, not an uncommon 
type of Saxon beauty; and this pict- 
ure is remarkable only for the charm- 
ing naivete of expression, which the 
painter has caught with wondrous skill 
— a sweet and loving face, which we 
linger before and like to keep in our 
memory. 

Richard Rogers was a shy farmer’s 
boy, with a good, honest face, large 
features, great dark eyes, and a finely 
shaped head, crowned by a mass of 
closely curling dark hair. No one 
dreamed that this boy in coarse clothes, 
with sunburnt hands and awkward 
address, was endowed with a keen 
sense of the beautiful. He was the 
quiet one of the family at home, al- 
ways ready to go to pasture with the 
cows at dawn, alone. lie enjoyed the 
song of the birds, the morning dew, 
the sunrise, the spring flowers, the 
moving clouds. The sunset adown 
the rocky hill, making the rough old 
granite, battered by the storms of cen- 
turies, look like the gates of the Apoc- 
alypse; the moon, with its softer radi- 
ance, silvering the old stone-walls and 
barren pastures, the wild-roses and the 
pond-lilies, were all sources of intense 
delight to this country boy. He did 
not dream that he was singular in 
this ; for, as he never told his thoughts 
to his companions, he siqDposcd them 
as reticent. When he went to the 
Academy and saw Alice Leigh, the 
sight of her affected him as these beau- 
ties of nature at home. Day after 
day, and week after week, he ^watched 
her at a distance, not daring to speak, 
and afraid lest she should once detect 
him looking at her. 

Richard was the best scholar in the 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


17 


arithmetic class, and was chosen one 
day, during the temporary illness of 
the teacher, to hear the class recite. 
Alice was a member of the class, and, 
as she said, “ never could do the sums.” 
Her lesson was very deficient; but as 
Richard, when he asked her questions, 
dared not lift his eyes to her face, he 
failed to see the blush of vexation at 
her own ignorance which mantled her 
cheeks. He little thought that the 
beautiful girl had looked with as much 
admiration at his fine head and curling 
hair as he at her fair face. When the 
recitation was over, she hurried to his 
side. 

“ Please, Richard, show me how to 
work these hard examples. I hate 
Greenleaf ! I wish the old man had 
died before the idea of making an 
arithmetic to torment poor girls had 
entered his head !” 

Poor Richard was in such a tremor 
of fear and delight that he could hard- 
ly speak, but managed to say, turning 
his eyes away from her, 

“ If Miss Alice will allow me, I think 
I can make them easy for her.” 

‘‘Allow you! Yes, and thank you 
too. Come, we will sit down under 
the elm -tree, and see if you can put 
any sense into this empty head of 
mine.” 

A lover of noble elms would be well 
paid for a long journey to see the 
beauty of these trees in the vicinity of 
Old Dummer. They surpass in size 
and shadow the Boston elm or the 
Old Elm of Newbury. 

Under one of these Richard and 
Alice sat, with their slates and pencils, 
amateur teacher and pupil. He found 
her ignorant of the very first principles 
2 


of fractions, which made it necessary 
to take her back some chapters, and 
this involved another lesson on the fol- 
lowing day. To Richard it was a bit 
of paradise come into his life. He 
dreamed at night of the pleasure which 
was to come, and made his toilet the 
next morning with unusual care, put- 
ting on his Sunday collar and ribbon. 
That old elm was sacred for the rest 
of his life. He had seen and played, 
before this, only with the girls in his 
own neighborhood. Cousin Polly most 
of all. 

In those years Polly went barefoo-t- 
ed, wore a calico sun-bonnet ; tore her 
clothes so often that they were in a 
chronic state of separation, like the 
South American republics ; never had 
put a glove on her hands, but always 
added an a to o when she talked; 
combed her hair on Sunday mornings 
only; and said it was a lazy thing to 
read books as long as berries brought 
six cents a quart. 

No wonder that Richard thought 
that Alice belonged to another race of 
beings, when he saw the little white 
hand moving over the slate, or the 
tiny gaiter “ creeping in and out ” the 
folds of her crisp blue gingham, or lis- 
tened to the sweet flow of words, well 
modulated and rightly put together, 
the inheritance of more than one gen- 
eration of refinement and intellect — a 
surer test of birthright than any coat 
of arms. Then the sweet face, patient, 
but perplexed, at which he ventured 
now and then to steal a look when her 
eyes were fixed on the slate and the 
little fingers making sorry-looking fig- 
ures thereon. 

The poor child had no genius for 


18 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


“ ciphering j” was no born Somerville, 
to astonish the world by conquering 
“Mecanique Celeste;” but under Rich- 
ard’s instruction she managed to gain 
a respectable standing in her class, and 
wrought mischief meanwhile. She not 
only stole knowledge from the poor 
boy’s head, but took his heart away 
with it. 

He had sense enough to know that 
a poor farmer’s boy of Go-down was 
no fit companion for Alice Leigh, the 
daughter of a rich and high-born fam- 
ily. He had often seen her home in 
Oldport — a great mansion, embowered 
in trees, standing in the highest part 
of the city, overlooking the business 
part of the town, and commanding a 
view of the ocean. He knew the gulf 
that lay between them, and was not 
bold enough at that age to think of 
bridging it. One thing only was cer- 
tain — she was the one woman of all 
others in the world to him — the star 
whose rising and setting would make 
the joy or the sorrow of his life. 

When Alice finished her arithmetic, 
she refused to join her classmates in 
studying algebra, saying, “ That will do 
for old maids who want to be learned, 
or girls who are going to teach.” 

‘‘ You will be married, I suppose,” 
said one of the girls, tauntingly. 

‘‘ I hope so,” was the quick reply, as 
she went on skipping her rope. 

‘^Are you going out to Go-down to 
milk cows and pick berries with Rich- 
ard Rogers ?” asked another. 

A flush mantled the fair face of the 
girl, and her heart beat faster for an 
instant. With her quick, woman’s in- 
stinct, she had divined the rare mod- 
esty and purity of Richard. She had 


seen him as expert and strong in their 
boyish games as any of the students ; 
he could walk as far, run as fast, throw 
his adversary in wrestling, and row a 
boat as skilfully as any of them ; but 
he never bullied a little boy or tram- 
pled on the weak. Yes, Alice had 
watched him closely, and thought she 
knew him well, but never for one mo- 
ment had she dreamed of his admira- 
tion of herself. 

Other boys gave her presents of 
flowers and books, chose her on their 
side in spelling, carried her satchel, 
asked her to sail in their boats, and 
gave proof enough that she was a 
great favorite with them. 

The girls had often teased her about 
Arthur Fletcher, a handsome fellow 
who was fitting for Harvard College, 
and who was the son of Judge Fletch- 
er, a man much respected in Oldport. 
This teasing gave her no uneasiness, 
for she had known Arthur all her life, 
and knew that he was a fop as vain as 
a silly girl, who thought more of the 
shade and color of his necktie than of 
truth or honor. He was so handsome 
and rich, and dressed so much better 
than the other school- boys, that he 
was a great favorite of the girls. He 
hadn’t a doubt but wdien he came to 
choose a wdfe he could make his own 
selection : the idea that any one of 
them could refuse him never entered 
his head. 

He was a neighbor of the Leighs, 
and Alice the most beautiful girl in 
school, therefore it was not strange 
that the school -girls coupled their 
names together. Alice had become 
accustomed to it, and let the jokes pass 
as unworthy of notice. But when, for 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


19 


tlie first time, Richard Rogers’s name 
was thus mentioned, a strange feeling, 
far removed from displeasure, filled her 
heart. 

She had not seen his home, to rec- 
ognize it as his, though she had often 
ridden past the old farm-houses, and 
thought some of them pretty and pict- 
uresque, with their vegetable gardens, 
corn-fields, and orchards. She had nev- 
er been an inmate of a farm-house, and 
knew nothing of the drudgery and 
ceaseless labor of almost every woman 
in it. 

Her own life had been as free from 
care and toil as that of the birds of 
the air and lilies of the field. The pet 
of her household, caressed by her par- 
ents, waited upon by kind old family 
servants, her greatest trial in life had 
been, perhaps, her arithmetic, and Rich- 
ard had carried her bravely through 
that trouble. 

She had two brothers, both of them 
many years older than herself. One 
of them was in Calcutta, and the other 
in business in a distant city. 

She might not have become interest- 
ed in Richard Rogers, had not her fan- 
cy first have been taken by that mag- 
nificent head of his, like that of some 
of the old gods,” she said ; but after 
those lessons under the old elm, she 
believed him different from all the 
other young men whom she had seen, 
and henceforth he was to her the man 
among men, an ideal hero. She kept 
these thoughts to herself ; for she was 
aw'are that if she spoke of him thus to 
her companions, there w’ould be no end 
to the fun which they would make of 
the poor farmer’s boy. 

Richard and Silas Rogers, as we 


have said, were twin-brothers, but very 
unlike in personal appearance and taste. 
Silas was a slender boy, with light hair 
and eyes, slow in his movements, caring 
nothing for dress, with no ambition 
beyond the little rocky farm on which 
he was born. He was not happy at 
school, and begged his father to let 
him come home and go to work, which 
the latter was perfectly willing to do, 
as he had sent his boys to the Acade- 
my at much inconvenience and expense 
to himself, because a New England fa- 
ther never feels that he has done his 
duty to his boys unless he has given 
’em a chance at learning,” as he calls 
it. Richard remained during the year, 
and was in a fair way of becoming the 
hero of Alice’s fancy, from seeing her 
daily. The presence of the beautiful 
girl, the grace in every motion, the 
music of her voice, her smile whenever 
they met, went far toward the educa- 
tion of his higher nature. He did not 
aspire to win her for his own, but he 
would be worthy of her. 

Some weeks after he had left school, 
and returned to the drudgery of the 
farm, his father asked him to ride with 
him to Oldport. It was a fine day in 
July. The early harvest apples were 
ripe, and new potatoes ready for mar- 
ket. 

“ You may put in two or three bush-* 
els of potatoes and apples, Dick,” said 
his father. “ They bring a good price 
now ; for though I have other business, 
we may as well kill two birds with one 
stone, if we can.” 

Richard dug his potatoes, put them 
in bags, and gathered his apples in bas- 
kets; then made himself ready. His 
toilet was simple, but he was one of 


20 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


those boys so blessed by nature that 
they never look awkward or vulgar; 
he had become scrupulously neat in 
person, and if his jackets and trousers 
were of coarse, homespun linen, they 
were very clean, and the straw hat, 
kept for Oldport and Sunday wear, 
was very becoming, with its ribbon 
band. On their way they passed a 
lily pond. The temptation was too 
strong for Richard to resist, and he 
gathered a quantity of them. His 
father laughed at him, but was very 
good-natured to wait, saying, Your 
mother was ’mazin’ fond of ’em when 
she was a gal.” 

After selling their potatoes and ap- 
ples, the father turned the horse’s head 
in the direction of Elm Avenue, the 
most beautiful street in the town, and, 
to Richard’s surprise, turned up the 
carriage road leading to Squire Leigh’s 
house. The day was warm, and all the 
blinds on the sunny side of the house 
were closed ; the squire, with his wife 
and daughter, were seated in the porch 
on the north side of the house. 

No sooner did Alice see Richard 
with a mass of lilies in his hand than 
she ran out, exclaiming, ‘‘Oh, Rich- 
ard, how kind you are to bring these 
to me ! They are the first I have seen 
this year.” 

Now, it did not enter Alice’s head 
that the lilies might not have been 
gathered for her; for what else could 
Richard be coming there ? 

As for the boy, he would as soon 
have thought of sending the President 
some of his early apples ; but the fact 
that Alice would accept them, yea, was 
delighted with them, made him proud 
and happy. He gave them all to her. 


just venturing to say, “Do you like 
pond-lilies. Miss Alice ?” 

“Yes, indeed; I think there is no 
flower more beautiful.” 

She stood there, dressed in white, 
her soft brown hair fastened by a blue 
ribbon, her eyes bright and smiling, as 
she held the lilies in her hand, ad- 
miring their beauty and inhaling their 
sweetness. 

“Well, captain,” said Mr. Rogers, 
“I called to see if you can tell mo 
about the railroad survey. It is kind 
of nateral,you know, that I should feel 
curious about it.” 

“Very natural indeed, Mr. Rogers,” 
said the squire, laughing ; “ I should 
feel the same in your place. I am 
happy to tell you that the survey is 
made, and takes in a long strip of 
your farm. You will be amjDly paid 
for your land, and moreover, the depot 
will no doubt be built upon what you 
call your ‘lower pasture.’ You are a 
lucky fellow, Rogers, and will be a 
richer man than you ever dreamed of 
being on that rocky farm.” 

“That is so, squire, and the good- 
luck comes just when the old house 
is falling over our heads. I shall be 
glad for the sake of my wife, who is 
ailing, to have a new one.” 

“That is right,” said the squire. 
“ Take your money and build a com- 
fortable home: you cannot put it to a 
better use. Come to me before you 
settle with the commissioners, and I 
will advise you.” 

“Thank you, sir; and if it pleases 
you to ride over some day, we will go 
over the land together.” 

“I will ride over in a few days,” 
said the squire. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


21 


Richard and Alice listened to this 
conversation, the one with pleasure 
that any prosperity should come to 
her friend ; the other, at first with sur- 
prise, for his father, with a wise reti- 
cence, had not told his boys of this 
hope of good- luck which had been 
held out to him; and then suddenly 
another thought came like the light- 
ning’s flash — Alice was by his side — 
“Who knows,” he said to himself, 
“but this money may bring me near- 
er to her — help me to educate myself 
that I may dare, some future day, to 
tell her what is in my heart?” The 
next instant he was checking himself 
for his presumption. But all the way 
home the thought would recur, and so 
filled his mind that he would have for- 
gotten the lilies for his mother, had 
not his father reminded him, when 
they came to the pond, that “Ma’am 
liked lilies as well as the squire’s gal.” 

“ That is a fine-looking boy, that son 
of Rogers’s,” said Squire Leigh, as he 
sat down in the porch beside his wife 
and daughter. “ The Rogers come of 
a good stock, and I am glad of this 
rise in his fortune.” 

“He has a noble head — the boy, I 
mean,” said the mother. “I wonder 
where he learned to take off his hat to 
a lady. It is not common among the 
boys of Go-down.” 

“A drop of the good old blood 
which has come down to him from 
a past generation, perhaps,” said the 
squire. “For many years the family 
have been too poor to cultivate fine 
manners. By-the-way, if you and Pet 
care to see the old farm, you can ride 
out with me next week.” 

Wise little Alice, seeing that her 


mother consented, held her peace, but 
caressed the lilies. 

On the day of their ride the father . 
and sons were making hay, the most 
picturesque of all farm -work. The 
squire drove directly to the field, 
where the boys, in their coarse, broad- 
brim hats, were tossing the hay into 
stacks, preparatory to loading on the 
wains. A fine south-west wind had 
cured it well, and now wafted to every 
passer-by the fragrance of sweet- clo- 
ver, so much cultivated in these fields. 
Richard made a couch of hay, on 
which the two ladies seated them- 
selves, and Squire Leigh bade the 
brothers go on with their work, saying 
that haying should follow the example 
of time and tide, and wait for no man. 

The two men walked off together, 
and Mrs. Leigh and Alice watched the 
haymakers till the whole field was dot- 
ted with the soft green mounds. 

Mrs. Rogers, a pale, weary - looking 
woman, came out to them, bringing 
milk and berries. She had opened her 
best room for them, but they begged 
to remain out-of-doors. 

While the older ladies talked, Alice 
wandered into the orchard, where Rich- 
ard joined her, in a clean jacket, look- 
ing fresh and happy, as well he might, 
for he had youth, health, and that feel- 
ing which comes to us early in life — a 
wondrous sense of beauty and good- 
ness all around him. 

The sky was clear, and, now that the 
hay was in stacks, and no indication of 
rain, he could walk in the orchard with 
Alice, who was delighted with this 
picture of rural life. The wild- roses 
were still in bloom, the green lanes be- 
yond the stone-wall, “rough with ferns 


22 


COUSIiT POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


and flowers “ the bee winded her 
small but mellow horn,” and a beauti- 
ful humming-bird, scarlet-throated and 
violet - winged, came and poised itself 
on a large purple thistle, gathering its 
sweetness despite the prickles. They 
gathered wild-flowers, admired butter- 
flies and birds, and then sat down un- 
der a wide-spreading apple-tree to talk 
about old Dummer. Richard inform- 
ed Alice that if his father sold the 
land, he should go back to school and 
fit for college. 

That is what you ought to do,” 
said Alice. “ Master Moody said, you 
know, that such a good mathematical 
scholar ought not to stay on a farm ; 
and yet, since I came here to - day, I 
think a farmer’s life is not bad. It is 
a new idea — I don’t know but it is 
irreverent — but it came into my head 
when I sat watching you, that you 
worked with God; that you must be 
nearer to him, living out-of-doors, than 
lawyers, for instance, that spend all 
their time, like spiders, weaving webs 
to catch silly flies that haven’t sense 
enough to see the web.” 

You are rather hard upon law- 
yers,” said Richard, taking off his hat, 
and giving his great curly head a 
shake. 

Alice had taken her hat off and laid 
it beside her; but neither of them 
dreamed of the beautiful picture they 
made as they sat side by side — the 
golden-brown locks and fair face of the 
girl, and the darker, large-featured boy, 
with a rich bloom on his cheeks, and 
his grandly poised, well -shaped head 
turned toward his companion. 

There was one who watched them, 
unseen, eagerly drinking in the beauty. 


fearful every minute that he should be 
detected in his hiding-place. It was 
the twin-brother Silas, the homely, un- 
dersized boy, with his “tow-head,” as 
the boys called it, and his freckled face. 
He had been to the early harvest-tree, 
and gathered a few of the largest and 
finest apples for the guests, and was 
hiding under the hedge, afraid to come 
forward and offer his gift. After a 
while, as he lay there hidden, the two 
started suddenly from their resting- 
place, leaving their hats behind them, 
to gather something which grew near 
the edge of the wood. It was the 
beautiful “ maiden - hair,” which the 
bright eyes of Alice had discovered. 
This was Silas’s opportunity, which 
he improved by leaving his basket of 
golden fruit beside the hats, and then 
hastening away to get the hay-carts all 
ready by the time the visitors should 
take their leave. From behind one of 
the hay-stacks he watched the return 
of Richard and Alice, and saw the de- 
light of Alice on finding the apples, 
and observed also that slie sat and ate 
them, “just like other school - girls,” 
he said to himself. 

Meanwhile the mothers, as mothers 
often will, found an unfailing subject 
for talk in their children, to which poor 
Mrs. Rogers added a sad tale of her 
own failing health and bodily suffer- 
ing. It was evident that the woman 
was dying with consumption, that dis- 
ease which carries so many of the 
dwellers by the sea, in middle-life, to 
their long home. 

When the squire and Mr. Rogers 
returned from that part of the farm 
through which the projected railroad 
was to run, they found Silas ready to 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


23 


bring the horse, which he had been 
thoughtful enough to water, from un- 
der the shade of the great elm which 
overhung the low farm-house. Alice 
joined her mother; Richard filled the 
floor of the carriage with flowers, ferns, 
and apples ; and all faces wore a happy 
expression — none more so than Silas’s, 
though he stood apart in the shadow 
of a hay-stack, unseen, and unthought 
of. 

“Now, boys,” said Mr. Rogers, “ we 
will to work with a will. I have made 
more money this day than in all my 
life before. Marm shall have a new 
house that sha’n’t be leaky and damp; 
Richard may go to college ; and Silas 
shall live with me, if he wants to be a 
farmer, and I will leave the farm to 
him when I die. Does that suit you, 
boys ?” 

“Yes, sir,” they said, almost in a 
breath, though Richard’s answer lag- 
ged a little; for he remembered what 
Alice had just said — “that somehow a 
farmer seemed to be nearer to God than 
other men,” and he wondered “if — if 
being a farmer would — ” But he stop- 
ped the flow of his own thoughts, and 
once more blamed himself for his pre- 
sumption. The sight of his worn, pale 
mother, dying before her time from 
the exposure and drudgery incident to 
her life, led him to recall the fact that 
Alice knew no more of the life which 
most farmers’ wives in this part of the 
world led, than he of the ease and. lux- 
ury of Squire Leigh’s family. 

He had little time for musings then, 
for the hay was to be got into the 
barn before sunset, and the lost time 
made up. They were nearly through, 
when gathering clouds foretold a quick- 


coming thunder-storm, and made it 
necessary to work with great expedi- 
tion. 

“We will hardly make it with the 
last load,” said the father, when Polly 
Kiar came into the fleld. 

Polly was not two years older than 
Alice Leigh, and yet anybody look- 
ing at the two girls would have pro- 
nounced her a decade ahead. Rich- 
ard could not help smiling as he saw 
the contrast. Polly, barefooted, with 
soiled and torn gown, large, rough 
hands, and dingy, calico sun -bonnet, 
seemed hardly to belong to the same 
race as the fair, delicate creature who 
had so lately made the field bright 
with her presence. Silas stopped an 
instant, busy as he was, to look at her, 
and whisper as she came near, “ Polly, 
you are old enough to wear shoes.” 

“ So father says, and I suppose I will 
have to put ’em on; but I hate the 
stiff things, don’t you ?” 

“ Not for girls,” said Silas. 

“Want some help? Them clouds 
are full of thunder,” said Polly, as she 
took the rake to gather the scattered 
hay and pile it on the cart. 

She worked as fast and as well as 
the boys, climbing upon the top of one 
well-filled wain and driving it to the 
barn-yard, while the others were pitch- 
ing. Through her aid it was all got 
in, one wainful driven through the 
great door -way and left standing till 
the storm which just then burst upon 
them in its fury should be over. She 
went with them into the house, and 
sat, watching the flash of lightning, 
and listening to the roar of thunder as 
if it were music to her. 

“You seem to like it, Polly,” said 


24 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


the timid Mrs. Rogers, who trembled 
and shrunk at each flash. 

“ Yes, I allers did. Never was sheer- 
ed in my life at it.” 

“ Nor at anything else either, Polly, 
were you ?” said Mr. Rogers. 

“Only onct, down to the ‘Devil’s 
Den,’ when I heard a groaning in the 
rocks. I ain’t sheered at nothin’ but 
sperits.” 

“Well, Polly, you’ll hear thunder 
enough soon, for they are going to run 
the railroad through my farm, and they 
will blast the rocks down in the low- 
er paster till you have enough of the 
music.” 

“ They’ll steal all the huckleberries !” 
said Polly, with a look of alarm. 

“There is danger of that, certain- 
ly ; but, Polly, they will build a depot, 
either on my lower paster or on your 
land. If they take yours, they will 
give you money for it, and you will be 
better off than ever before.” 

At these words Polly started to her 
feet. “ They sha’n’t take our land, not 
if they do give us money for it ! It is 
ours. Father has got a deed of it, and 
he is going to put it in my name, and 
I never, never will give it up.” 

“ Nonsense, Polly !” said Richard ; 
“ your land is good for nothing but to 
grow huckleberries. I should think 
you would be glad to get rid of it.” 

“ I say it is ourn, and they sha’n’t 
have it !” And no sooner were the 
words out of her mouth than she rush- 
ed out of the house, reckless of the 
pouring rain and thunder, to her home. 
Her father sat in an old chair, near the 
centre of the room, with his hands one 
on each of the arms, looking old and 
worn. His hair was gray and thin, his 


face gaunt and sallow, like one who 
had not been too well fed, and his 
clothes, all the worse for wear, hung 
loosely upon him. 

Polly rushed in upon him, her hair 
and gown dripping with rain. “Fa- 
ther, Cousin Silas says prehaps the 
railroad will take our land from us to 
make a depot.” 

“Who says that?” asked the old 
man, roused from his reverie. 

“ Cousin Silas.” (This was their 
appellation for the elder Rogers ; the 
younger was generally called “ Si.”) 

“He don know; ’tain’t nothin’ but 
guess-work.” 

“Yes, it is. Squire Leigh has been 
out here, and it is certain that they 
will run the road through the farm, 
and they are going to give him lots of 
money.” 

“Well, Polly, I did hope to die in 
this ere spot, jest where your mother 
died ; but if it is better for you to 
have the money, I donno but I would 
consent.” 

“I don’t want you to consent. I 
want my own home : I want the huc- 
kleberry paster, and the house. They 
sha’n’t take you away from here, dad, 
shall they?” 

“Not if you say the word, Pol. I 
will ride over to-morrow and get the 
deed made out in your name, and then 
you can hold it agin ’em if you’re a 
mind to.” 

“I will, if I have to load the old 
gun,” said Polly. 

“Well, child, get me some supper 
now ; I am hungry,” said the old man, 
somewhat surprised at this sudden 
flash of her love for the old place. 

Polly brought her father’s supper^ 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


25 


but did not partake with him, for, see- 
ing that the rain had ceased, she ran 
out-of-doors, and made her way quick- 
ly to a little wood -colored house on 
the top of a rocky knoll. Not a tree 
shaded the place, and no green thing 
grew on the lot save a few berry bush- 
es, one scrawny lilac, and the mosses 
that had crept into the niches of the 
rocks — those soft green and brown 
cryptogams, true to their nature, hid- 
ing in these moist clefts. 

Neither blind nor shutter sheltered 
the windows, but winter winds and 
summer suns had free access to the 
dwelling. The door was open, and 
just wdthin sat an old woman, with her 
white hair drawn tightly away from 
her forehead, and fastened with a 
small horn comb on the back of her 
head. A blue -calico short -gown, a 
scant woollen petticoat, and a string 
of gold beads round her throat, com- 
pleted her toilet. No cap softened the 
brown, wrinkled face, nor Avhite ruffle 
concealed the scraggy neck. Her feat- 
ures were sharp, and the small, shrewd, 
black eyes were so much like those of 
Polly’s that a stranger w’ould not won- 
der to hear the girl address her as 
aunt. 

“I say. Aunt Betsey,” said Polly, 
breathless from running up the hill, 

maybe they’ll take our place for a 
depot. They are going to run the 
railroad through Cousin Silas’s farm, 
and give him lots of money for it.” 

“What do you mean by lots of mon- 
ey, Polly?” 

“ Si said he guessed ’twould be five 
thousand dollars, besides the lot for a 
depot : that ain’t settled on yet.” 

“Don’t you do it, Polly — don’t you 


let ’em have one foot of your home-lot 
or paster ! It will be found sometime ; 
I am as sure on’t as if I saw it with 
my own eyes. You are my sister’s 
child, and’ I ain’t goin’ to see you 
wronged out of it.” 

“Are you sure. Aunt Betsey, real 
sure, that you found it in the rocks?” 

“ Hain’t I got eyes, Polly, and ain’t 
they sharp now for an old woman of 
eighty ? What do you think they was 
at your age ? Why, youru don’t com- 
pare with mine, as they was wfflen I 
was a gal. There warn’t nothin’ in 
the woods or pasters that I didn’t find 
in them days. Well, as I have told 
you many a time afore, your mother, 
as was my sister Polly, only there was 
twenty years’ difference in our ages ; 
for folks had large families in those 
days : women now ain’t like them 
fruitful vines the Bible tells of — But, 
as I was sayin’, I took your mother 
out with me while I picked berries in 
what is now Silas Rogers’s old orchard. 
There was no sense in makin’ an or- 
chard there, cause there ain’t nothin’ 
but rocks for the roots to run on. I 
told ’em so when they were settin’ out 
the trees ; but la ! Polly, men don’t 
mind what a woman says, any more 
than if it was a crow cawin’ : so they 
went on with their orchard, and they 
have trees, but no apples to speak of. 
But that is nothin’ here nor there. I 
set your mother do-wn near a pile of 
stuns, and she went to playin’ with 
’em, and I picked berries. By-and-by 
she w^as tired and began to cry, and I 
sat down beside her, and took her on 
my lap, and went to pilin’ up the. stuns 
to please her. I saw some curous ones 
among ’em ; some that looked like glass 


2G 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


beads cut pinted, and some that were 
a pretty red, and two or three that 
had had white shiny streaks runnin’ 
tbro^h ’em, and some that had spar- 
*kles all through. I gathered a lot of 
’em to carry home with me, to put into 
your mother’s playhouse. Father hap- 
pened to see ’em. He was one of them 
still, obsarving men (we get our sharp 
eyes from him), and he sat a lookin’ 
at ’em for a long time; then he got a 
hammer and pounded ’em open, and at 
last he said, says he, ‘ Betsey, there’s 
as good lead in them stuns as was ever 
run into bullets to shoot a Britisher;’ 
and he kept at work poundin’ and 
pickin’ at ’em, and I shall never forget 
how all at once he turned round, and 
he said right out, ‘ Golly ! that’s sil- 
ver !’ Now he warn’t noways a swear- 
in’ man, but he was taken by surprise. 
He knew silver, because his father was a 
silversmith in the Old Country. Then 
we all went down to the place to hunt 
for stuns, and while we were there. 
Old Shawny, the Indian woman — you 
have heard us tell on her — that lived 
in a little hut by the lily pond, came 
along and told me that she had some 
stuns at home that she would give me. 
I went with her (ye see, I had always 
liked Shawny, though some of the gals 
was afraid of her), and then I found 
two or three that father said contained 
lead and silver. He took ’em to Old- 
port to silversmith Moulton, a very 
wise man, who knew real gold and pure 
silver the minit he set eyes on ’em. He 
was surprised, and told father if he 
could bring him a few more, he would 
make a teaspoon of the silver. Shawny 
helped me, and at last we got enough, 
and here’s the very teaspoon — you 


have seen it a hundred times.” (The 
old woman produced a small but heavy 
spoon of solid silver, marked “ B. Rog- 
ers, 1789;” and also “Moulton,” in 
small letters on the stem.) “ As for 
lead, your father made all his bullets 
of the lead I picked up, or, rather, I 
should say, he got it out of the stuns 
that Shawny and I gathered. There 
was lots of wild game in those days, 
and we used a gun more than we do 
now.” 

“ But the professor, the learned man 
that knew all about these things, that 
was paid for coming here to look at 
the rocks — he said that no doubt your 
spoon was silver, and perhaps a part 
of it might have been found here ; but 
if so, it was only on the outside : there 
never would be enough found to pay 
for bustin’ the rocks open; and he 
laughed about your dreams — I heard 
him — cause you see I was hidin’ be- 
hind the ‘great rock’ when he and 
Silas were talkin’.” 

“Yes, I know all about that,” said 
Aunt Betsey, as she leaned her elbows 
on her knees and looked out upon the 
western sky, where lay a long line of 
golden light, the last smile of the sun 
that had just set, and its prophecy of a 
fine morrow to come. “ Yes, lamin’ is 
a fine thing, they say, and maybe ’tis. 
There was a man cum along here the 
other day, and said that the sun, that 
cum out of the clouds a few minits 
ago, and went down behind the hill, 
was a big ball with something like 
fiery, hot steam all round it; and that 
this world turned over every day, to 
make light and darkness ; and he read 
books all day, and sat out, mooning, 
all night : but he couldn’t split a stick 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


27 


of wood to make a fire, nor handle a 
scythe, nor hoe potatoes ; and he asked 
me, ‘ Do you bind shoes afore they are 
made?’ and lots of such silly questions, 
lie was as ignorant as a baby, but he 
read books all the time. Then there’s 
your second - cousin, Jim Brown, who 
addled his head tryin’ to get lamin’, and 
is spiled for life. ’Tain’t book-larnin’ 
that makes a man able to take care of 
hisself in this world. I can spell my 
way through the Bible, batin’ the big 
words in the Canonicles, and the wisest 
man says, ‘ He that increaseth knowl- 
edge, increaseth sorrow.’ 

“That lamed man that came all the 
way down here from some college, and 
stood over the very rocks where fa- 
ther used to get his lead for bullets, 
said, ‘ It was no use sarchiri’ or dig- 
gin’ for more; the stuns were found 
on the outside of the land, washed 
down from somewhere — that it warn’t 
no use diggin’and blastin’; there wasn’t 
no more.’ And he made fun of my 
dreams: that shows he wasn’t a good 
man ; ’cause, you see, the Bible is full 
of ’em — dreams that come to pass, 
too. He wouldn’t come to see me, Si- 
las said — hadn’t any time to waste. I 
just as much believe my dream will 
come to pass as I believe I see you. I 
never told you what set me to dream- 
in’ about it. It is ever so many years 
ago, before Shawny went away from 
these parts. Our folks had been blast- 
ing rocks at the ledge, where they got 
stuns for the Custom-house in Old- 
port; I had seen them do it, and 
knew jest how kerful a body must be. 
Shawny and I were out pickin’ berries 
in your paster, nigh where your house 
stands — nobody near us, ’cause ’twas 


gine’ral trainin’-day, and the men and 
boys were all off seein’ the trainers. I 
was poking about among the rocks, 
when Shawny said if we could dig 
down two or three feet and then blast, 
maybe we’d find something.- That 
Shawny knew more about plants and 
stuns than a dozen college-larned men. 
Well, we did it : we dug and blasted. 
I was ’mazin’ kerful, for I knew the 
danger; but we did no harm to nothin’ 
but the rocks — Now, you go to the 
under drawer in my old bureau, and 
bring out them stuns.” 

Polly obeyed, and, ignorant as she 
was, she could not fail to see streaks 
of silver and bright, rough particles of 
lead running through them. 

“ I brought them home to father,” 
the old woman continued, “and he 
said as how they were beautiful; but 
he was tired from being all day at 
gineral trainin’, and he an old man, 
and he says, ‘ Put ’em away till morm 
in’, Polly.’ That night I dreamed that 
I was in the paster, close to the hole 
that we had made by blastin’, when 
the rocks opened and made a path for 
me, so that I walked down jest as if it 
was stairs made a purpose. 

“All at once they came to an end in 
a room full of piles of lead and silver 
stuns, and scattered in with them was 
gold. I was going to carry my apron 
full to father, and said to myself, ‘We 
shall be rich, and not obleged to work 
hard any more;’ but jist as I Avas 
picking them up, an Indian started 
out from one corner, dressed in a red 
shirt, with his head stuck full of ea- 
gles’ feathers (showing he had taken a 
great many scalps), raised his toma- 
hawk, and said, ‘ Begone ! this treasure 


28 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


is DOt for you, but for them that shall 
come after you !’ I tell you, Polly, I 
run up them stairs faster than I came 
down. I woke up in a terrible fright, 
and heard inarm calling, ‘Betsey, come 
down ; • your father is a dyin’, I do be- 
lieve !’ 

“ He wasn’t dyin’, but it was next to 
it, for he had taken a shock, and never 
left his bed till he was carried out to 
be laid in his coffin a year arterward. 
I hadn’t no time to think of rocks 
then, and while I was kept in the 
house, waiting on father, Shawny dis- 
appeared, and has never been heard of 
since.” 

“This ain’t the dream you told Si- 
las,” said Polly. 

“No, child, I never told this dream 
afore, and never meant to tell it to 
anybody but you. I have had dream 
upon dream ; I’m given to dreams, like 
them old kings — Pharo, and that other 
with a long name that went to stay in 
the pasters with the cows and oxen. I 
tell you this dream because you are my 
next o’ kin, and will inherit the spoon 
and my humsted here,” looking round, 
as she spoke, with a sense of owner- 
ship on the desolate, rocky half-acre. 

“ I shall not sell to the railroad men. 
Aunt Betsey,” said Polly, “that’s cer- 
tain. I dunno about the silver or lead, 
but I do know that the yarbs and ber- 
ries bring us in a good bit of money 
every summer. I like it, too, though 
^Dick says I ought to go to school.” 

“I suppose so,” said Aunt Betsey; 
“ he’s got a streak of his great grand- 
sir in him. He was a minister, and 
preached till he was eighty years old, 
and then died a poor man. Lamin’ 
don’t pay, Polly ; let it alone.” 


“ I mean to let it alone. Aunt Betsey. 
I don’t care nothin’ for books, but I 
can reckon interest in my head now 
quicker than Dick or Si.” 

“That comes from my side of the 
house, Polly. The Kiars ain’t no fools 
about money. They can make and 
keep it. Your father and mother were 
half-cousins, you know, and both of the 
same name. Your father has got the 
Rogers blood in him — But there he 
is a bio win’ his horn. You must run ; 
’tai’nt safe leaving him alone,’ now he’s 
so feeble.” 

We leave Polly and her father, sleep- 
ing, in this summer night, with doors 
and windows open; the fresh air, pure 
and moist from the late shower, blow- 
ing gently through the house, and the 
moon, silvering the old rocks that lay 
in great loose bowlders, or that lifted 
their gray heads from beneath the soil. 

Not many miles away — half a dozen, 
perhaps — Alice Leigh sat alone in a 
room, soft with rich carpeting, and 
bright with rare pictures, and all sorts 
of beautiful things from over the sea. 
Her father’s ships had brought from 
India rare and curious gifts for the 
little beauty — curiously wrought boxes, 
great china jars, beautiful vases, birds, 
fans, and feathers. The drapery of her 
bedstead was of India silk, and the rug 
on which she now sat by the open win- 
dow was of Oriental manufacture, soft 
and thick. 

She sat looking at the moonlight, as 
it kissed the blue waves of the Merri- 
mac, and flung its silvery arrows on the 
clustered houses and the distant wood- 
land. She thought the moonlight had 
never been so bright before, and won- 
dered that she never felt the glory of 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


29 


nature as now. The dear child’s heart 
was full of tender and sweet thoughts 
as she prayed that she might be good, 
and that God would help her to be 
lowly in spirit and pure in heart. 
When the Old South clock struck elev- 
en, she turned away from the window, 
drew the shades, and, kneeling down 
by the side of the richly curtained and 
massive mahogany bedstead, repeated 
her evening prayer. No human eye 
saw the rich blush that mantled her 
cheek as another name mingled itself 


with that of father and brothers in the 
prayer. She could not help it, and at 
last, unable to put it out of her thoughts, 
she said to herself, it cannot be a sin to 
ask God to bless him. 

Modern philosophers write about 
brain -waves. Was it a brain -wave 
that at this moment caused Bichard 
Rogers to wake from a beautiful dream, 
and fancy that he saw ‘‘standing in 
the moonlight in his room, making it 
rich and like a lily in bloom,” the form 
of Alice as if in prayer ? 



I 






CHAPTER IL 

SUCCESS IN LIFE.— AWKWARD SV' 


Kichard Rogers went back to 
Dummer, where, by hard study, he fit- 
ted himself for college in less time than 
the other boys of his age. He had 
health, ambition, and an experienced 
teacher, who, being a graduate of Har- 
vard himself, knew how to prepare a 
willing student, not only to enter his 
class but to do so without conditions. 

Before the winter apples were gath- 
ered, the engineers and railroad men 
were at work on that part of the road 
which was to run through Mr. Rog- 
ers’s farm. Polly’s father had deeded 
the little homestead to his daughter ; 
but as she was a minor, a guardian 
was made necessary by law, and, in 
accordance with her wishes. Aunt Bet- 
sey was appointed. She was a hale 
and hearty old woman, older than her 
brother - in - law, but likely to outlive 
him, as he inherited a tendency to con- 
sumption, in common with most of his 
family. 

“We’ll see whether the railroad will 
get your land, Polly !” said the old 
woman. “I don’t want no fightin’, 


though I could load grandsir’s flint- 
lock and fire it off better than most 
men ; but one thing is sartin — there is 
going to be no railroad on your paster. 
If they lay the rails — ” 

“ I’ll take ’em up,” said Polly. 

“No, maybe that is agin law, Polly; 
and father allers said that goin’ agin 
law was kicking pricks: but I would 
stand right in the path before the en- 
gine every time it came along. If it 
goes through your paster, it goes over 
my dead body.” 

Betsey’s interview with the railroad 
inspectors was an amusing episode in 
their experience. 

She stood bareheaded on one of the 
rocky knolls in the pasture, her white 
hair fastened in its usual knot, her 
eyes, bright as black diamonds, peering 
at them from out her wrinkled face, 
brown as a nut. Her teeth were sound 
and unbroken, and she could outtalk 
the men, who were trying to persuade 
her that it would be for her ward’s 
advantage to sell the land. 

“Ye needn’t say that,” raising her 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


31 


bare arm, as brown as that of a mum- 
my, but strong and full of life. ‘‘ I 
ain’t much opinion of men’s promises 
to women ; I’ve heard ’em many a 
time, to my sorrer. Maybe you’ll make 
money, and maybe you’ll swamp all 
you can git out of us ; but your mon- 
ey can’t buy the old paster. Brother 
Hiram is goin’ to see the sun rise and 
set from this spot as long as he lives, 
and our Polly will come after him. 
She ain’t going to give up her berry 
paster for no railroad, not she : the gal 
is clear grit, if her father is kinder 
down in the mouth from hard luck. 
She’ll take care of him and herself too ; 
only as I’m her gardeen, and ye saw fit 
to come me, I gin you my mind about 
it.” 

“We can take Silas Rogers’s lower 
pasture,” said one of the men, “ but it 
is the best piece of land on his farm; 
and this bit of Polly’s will answer as 
well, though it is the meanest spot I 
ever set eyes on. Why, the very grass- 
hoppers don’t get enough to eat ^ they 
are all undersize, you see.” 

“Jest hear him, Polly ! This man 
with store-close and gold chain talkin’ 
agin your paster, where ye was born 
and raised, and the rocks that God Al- 
mighty himself put here ! I guess he 
knew what he put them here for ; it is 
in his decrees and purposes” (Betsey 
prided herself upon having been to 
“meetin”’ all her younger days); “and 
maybe ye will live to learn.” 

Polly, who always yielded to the 
superior wisdom of her aunt, stood by 
in silence, now and then fiinging back 
with a toss of her head the loose black 
hair which hung in long elf locks, and 
dangling her sun-bonnet in her hand. 


The inspector turned away, convinced 
that Aunt Betsey was as firm and un- 
daunted in spirit as the Scottish out- 
law. 

“‘This rock shall fly from its firm 
base as soon as I,’ ” he repeated to his 
companion. Years afterward, when 
business and foreign travel had made 
him almost forget this part of his life, 
he recalled vividly to mind this same 
old woman,. as she stood on the rocks 
that day, browned by the suns of eighty 
summers, and her head, like the tops of 
certain mountains, crowned with snow. 

Silas Rogers sold the lower pasture, 
and received a good sum of money for 
it. He took funds enough from the 
company to build a comfortable house 
for his wife ; but all the pleasure she 
derived from it was the possession of 
a warm, dry room in which to wear 
her life away for a few months. 

Not long after the death of Mrs. 
Rogers, Polly found her father, one 
summer’s evening, with his arms fold- 
ed on his work -bench and his head 
resting upon them. He sat in this 
position so long and was so silent, 
that she touched him on the shoulder 
to ask if he would come and eat his 
supper. He made no answer, and be- 
fore long she learned that he had fall- 
en asleep, to wake no more ! After 
that event, she spent her nights in 
Aunt Betsey’s house, and began her 
life-work of bringing berries to Old- 
port. It was then that she bought 
Dobbin, a colt at that time, but not re- 
markable for spirit or beauty. Cousin 
Silas gave her an old wagon, and Aunt 
Betsey furnished the money for the 
“still,” with instructions how to use 
it. Henceforth she was an indepen- 


32 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


dent and happy woman. The idea of 
matrimony did notenter her head; and 
in this respect was she not more to 
be envied than most of the fashiona- 
ble girls in Oldport, who, after leaving 
school, had little to do, save spreading 
their sails in uncertain ventures upon 
the sea of matrimony ? 

Polly grew strong and healthy out- 
of-doors in summer, and found work 
in the long winters with her still, her 
shoe-binding, and occasional spinning. 
Aunt Betsey lived to be over ninety 
years of age, and retained her facul- 
ties till very near the close of her life. 
She could see the railroad from her 
door, and used to watch the engine as 
it came panting and puffing through 
meadow and upland, ‘‘Belching fire 
and smoke,” the old woman said, “ as 
if it ■were the evil- one himself;” and 
she so far believed it was a “ thing of 
evil,” that she could not be induced to 
ride in a car. Si persuaded Polly to 
go to Oldport on one Fourth of July 
to see the fireworks, having first ascer- 
tained that she had a new straw hat 
and white cotton stockings. 

The railroad had made a revolu- 
tion in the berry trade. Agents came 
along to buy the berries at the doors 
of the pickers; but Polly folio ^\’*ed 
Aunt Betsey’s advice to “ do her own 
tradin’ ;” and having a set of custom- 
ers who gave her more per quart than 
she could get from her agent, and who 
also took her sassafras and pipsisse- 
wa, her mint and rose-water, chickens 
and eggs, she had no need to patronize 
any “go-betweens,” as the old woman 
called the agents. 

When her aunt died, she fell heir 
to the desolate, rocky knoll, the little 


house, the spoon and the stones, with 
the other household goods of the 
old woman. The neighbors said that 
there was some money in bank also; 
but if so, Polly kept the secret of 
it to herself. She lived on as before, 
but, at Cousin Silas’s suggestion, rent- 
ed the old house on the rocks to a 
neighbor, who found it a shelter for his 
family till he could procure a better. 

The people of this neighborhood 
lived hard, barren lives — a workaday 
world only for them. To Richard, 
in his vacations, with the new hopes 
and aspirations which had risen up 
in him, “Go-down” seemed a dreary 
place enough. His father was work- 
ing harder than ever ; for all the mon- 
ey which he had received from the 
railroad company, save that which had 
gone to build his small house and the 
purchase of a span of working-horses, 
was invested in the stock of the rail- 
road, from which he hoped to reap 
great profit in the future. Richard 
was ignorant that the payment of his 
college bills required much exertion 
and self-denial at home. Silas junior 
was to receive regular wages for his 
labor on the farm, “as a set-off,” his 
father said, “ to what he was doing for 
Richard ;” but when he learned, as he 
soon did, from knowing all the affairs 
of the farm, how hard it was for his 
father to raise this money, he refused 
the wages. “Let ’em go, father,” he 
said ; “ Dick can’t leave college, and I 
can do without the money till our rail- 
road stock brings good dividends ;” 
and this arrangement was according!)'- 
made, though Dick was not told of it. 
The latter stood well in college as a 
student, and grew tall and manly. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


33 


There was a stronger contrast than 
ever between the brothers. Dick, with 
his well-fitting clothes and general air 
of culture and refinement, looked like 
a stranger in his own home, beside the 
lank, roughly dressed Silas, who had 
not overcome his shyness, or outgrown 
the freckles and tow - colored hair. 
Dick was invited to Oldport circles, 
and was a welcome guest in houses 
where Silas only drove his wagon to 
the side door with garden - vegetables 
and apples. 

Captain Leigh was a graduate of 
Harvard, and meeting Richard acci- 
dentally in the street, he asked him to 
dinner, as he had some questions to 
ask relative to the last Commencement, 
which he had not been able to attend. 
Richard was ready for the catechism, 
and would have been willing to answer 
questions for an hour, might he be re- 
warded with one glimpse of Alice. 

It never once entered the judge’s 
head that his daughter could fancy one 
of the Go -down boys for a husband. 
He had often regretted that the Ar- 
thur Fletcher type of young men was 
so common at the present day; he al- 
most hoped Pet would never marry, 
for the beaux were such a frivolous, 
smoking, idle set. In the singleness of 
his heart, and inclined in sheer mirth- 
fulness to impose a little task upon 
her, he had no sooner seated Richard 
in the drawing-room than he went and 
found Alice, and sent her down to en- 
tertain the young man, while he him- 
self dressed for dinner. 

“You remember, Pet, the Rogers 
boys on the farm where you Avent 
with me once, when they projected 
the railroad ?” 


“Yes, father,” very demurely, “I 
think I do. Is it the light - haired, 
freckled one ?” 

“ I don’t know about the freckles. 
Pet; but the boy has got a head like 
Daniel Webster.” 

Alice ran back to her room just to 
take one peep at the glass, and tie a 
fresh ribbon on her hair. She and 
Richard had met often, in his vaca- 
tions, but never before in her own 
house. 

Alice thought her father’s toilet was 
made hastily that day ; but, in truth, 
he had taken up a newspaper, and for- 
gotten for a few moments after dress- 
ing that he had invited a guest to 
dinner. 

This was in Richard’s senior year. 
The captain was surprised and pleased 
at the intelligence and manly bearing 
of this farmer’s boy. He little knew 
that for years this young man had 
struggled to make himself worthy to 
win his daughter. Richard had no 
doubt endowed Alice with more per- 
fections than she possessed, for Love 
is proverbially blind ; but- the higher 
the ideal, the greater the struggle. 
After dinner a ride was proposed 
some miles into the country, and on 
their return, Mrs. Leigh invited Rich- 
ard to remain in the evening to meet 
a small party of young friends from 
the city. In this society, too, Rich- 
ard held his OAvn, and Alice had no 
reason to blush for any awkward- 
ness or mauvaise honte on his part. 
Not once during that day did it enter 
the head of the judge or his wife that 
this young man, Silas Rogers’s son, 
could be a suitor for their daughter’s 
hand. Arthur Fletcher was there. 


3 


34 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


liaiidsome, polished, but with a head as 
empty as his purse was full. 

When the elders retired for the 
night, as the judge was winding his 
gold repeater, and his wife settling 
her pretty ruffled nightcap on her 
head, she asked her husband if he no- 
ticed that young Fletcher always man- 
aged in some way to be present when- 
ever there was a social gathering 
where Alice was, and, moreover, that 
he seemed unwilling that Alice should 
dance with any other gentleman. 

“Yes,” said the judge, “and Alice 
treats him kindly, I perceive. I won- 
der if the little minx has got the idea 
of matrimony into her head : all girls 
do at her age, I suppose. I wish the 
young fellow took after his father. 
Fletcher senior is one of the noblest 
men in the State — my old chum and 
class-mate, you know; and nothing 
would please me better than a union 
of the families, provided Arthur was 
worthy of Pet ; but he seems to me a 
coxcomb, and not much of a scholar — 
was conditioned when he entered col- 
lege, and graduated without honor. 
His mother was a great beauty, and 
Fletcher fell desperately in love with 
her at first sight. I do not think he 
finds much sympathy from her in his 
literary tastes.” 

“Sympathy! Why, Otis, she is a 
born fool, and I never could see what 
gentlemen find to admire in her pink- 
and- white doll face! She heard that 
your cousin, Mrs. II. G. Otis, wore Hon- 
iton lace at Baron Gerolt’s reception in 
Washington last winter, and, wishing 
to be fashionable, she went all round 
the lace stores in Boston inquiring for 
Hottentot lace. When I asked her if 


she had read Bulwer’s ‘Ilienzi,’ she 
said, ‘No, but her husband was read- 
ing his “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and liked 
it very much.’ ” 

“Well, well,” said the judge, laugh- 
ing, “ beauty, like love, finds ready par- 
don. The young men of our set 
thought Fletcher won a great prize 
when he married Mary Austin. She 
had more beaux than she could count 
fingers and toes. One student went 
crazy, and was -carried to the Insane 
Retreat, because she rejected him.” 

“ More fool he !” said Mrs. Leigh, as 
she flung off her slippers with an im- 
patient jerk. “I never heard before 
that you were one of her adorers.” 

“And don’t hear it now, Margie 
dear,” said the judge, turning to the 
window to hide the smile which he 
could not suppress ; “ but, in truth, I 
suppose there were more pictures paint- 
ed of her than of any other lady in 
Boston ; and don’t you know what De 
Joinville said of her when her husband 
took her to St. Cloud, in Louis Phil- 
ij^pe’s day ?” 

“ No, I never lay up such nonsense, 
Otis; and one would suppose you had 
better things to occupy your mind.” 

“It came to me when I sat watching 
her son to-night. He has inherited her 
beauty — ” 

“And her empty head,” said Mrs. 
Leigh, hastily. 

“ I fear so,” said her husband ; “ but 
he may improve. If Pet likes him, we 
must be cautious. The remark made 
at the French court was, that Mrs. 
Fletcher had all the graces of the far- 
famed Madame Maintenon, and looked 
like her picture, only more beautiful — a 
comparison which I should be sorry to 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


35 


hear made of my wife. If our darling 
is only loved as you have been by your 
husband from his boyhood, his first and 
only love — a rare case, I confess — don’t 
you think she will be a happy woman ?” 

The tears came quickly to the eyes 
of the wife. She turned and laid her 
hand on her husband’s arm : ‘‘ Otis, I 
could ask God for no greater blessing 
for my child than such a husband as 
you have been to me.” 

At this very time Richard was rid- 
ing horseback toward his home — a 
home cheered by the presence of no 
woman, save a hired house - keeper, 
homely in person and uncouth in man- 
ner; but he cared little whither he went. 
His thoughts were all in the great 
house which he had just left, and upon 
Alice, to whom there seemed an added 
grace whenever they met. He had 
w^atched Arthur Fletcher that night, 
and saw the confident ease of his man- 
ner with Alice, and heard the thousand 
trifling compliments he paid to her, 
vain as the creamy foam on the sylla- 
bubs they had been eating. 

“ It could not be possible,” he said 
to himself, “ that she could love Fletch- 
er; and yet he has wealth, family, beau- 
ty — and — wdiat am I?” But over all 
the fear and doubt, and even over his 
modest self- estimate of himself, there 
came the vision of the beautiful girl, 
like an angel above the cloud, saying, 
“Good -night, Richard: now you and 
my father have become friends, I hope 
you will come to see us often in your 
vacation.” 

She had called him “ Richard,” as in 
the old school - days, and there was a 
smile on her face, and a pleased look 
in her eyes, whenever they met. Then 


her father had been very kind, and had 
told him stories of his own college 
days, and had seemed to enjoy himself 
in talking over the studies of the pres- 
ent class, and telling stories about the 
old halls and grounds. 

A thought flashed into Richard’s 
head, as he rode, that caused him to 
stop suddenly, close by the “great 
rock,”, as it is called — an immense 
bowlder, or rather, a series of them, 
that must have been flung there in one 
of nature’s great upheavals. 

It was bright starlight; but though 
there w^as no moon, the rocks loomed 
up gray- and bare in the clear night, 
save for a few vines that had crept up 
from the moist hollow beside them, 
and flung their green tendrils and glos- 
sy leaves over the rough sides. These 
vines trembled in the fresh breeze of 
the evening. 

“ Like my hopes,” said Richard, 
smiling, as he noticed them ; “ but my 
love is firm and enduring as the rocks. 
That will live if the hope dies. I will 
do it,” he said, aloud. “ I would soon- 
er face a battle, and stand in flie front 
rank ; that men do every day for mon- 
ey or for glory. What can I not do 
to win Alice Leigh ? It is right, too ; 
the honorable thing to be done — the 
only course for one in my position. 
Arthur Fletcher might go and make 
love to her, and society would approve ; 
but Richard Rogers, the poor farmer’s 
boy, must beware. I will do it ; yes, I 
will do it, if I break down and beat a 
retreat, as Jack Brown did the other 
day, when he tried to speak for the 
Dana prize.” Then Richard spurred 
on his horse, threw back his own head, 
and sat firmer in the saddle, as if body 


36 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


symi^athized with mind in the resolu- 
tion which he had just made. 

That resolution was simply this: to 
go to Judge Leigh, tell him that he 
loved his daughter, and ask his permis- 
sion to win her if he could. 

It may seem a little thing to the 
reader, but to Richard Rogers, at that 
time, it was Caesar crossing the Ru- 
bicon, Hannibal the Alps, or .Wash- 
ington at Brandywine. It seemed at 
some moments a forlorn - hope, and 
then he fancied he saw a vision of vic- 
tory in the future, and clasped from 
out the shadows the angel form that 
gleamed above them. 

As he neared the house, his brother 
Silas came out to meet him. These 
twin -brothers were very fond of each 
other ; and, until mow, had no secret 
between them. But of his love to 
Alice, Richard had never spoken. The 
subject was too sacred even for a 
brother’s ear : But if I succeed, dear 
good old Si will be almost as happy 
as myself,” he said in his heart, as Si 
ai^peared in the lane which led to the 
house. ‘'You up, Si? It is most mid- 
night. I hope you have not kept out 
of your bed for me ?” 

“ Oh no,” said Si. “ It is so warm 
and pleasant, that one can rest as well 
out as in bed,” he replied, as he gave 
Meg, Richard’s horse, some water. 

“ She is a pretty creature ; don’t you 
think so, Dick?” as he patted the neck 
of the animal, who rubbed against Si’s 
shoulder, in token of good-fellowship. 

“I never rode a better, Si. You will 
be famous for your horses, if you raise 
many more like Meg. I had two of- 
fers for her to-day, but I would not lis- 
ten to them at all. I told them that 


my brother Si raised it for me, and 
gold couldn’t buy it.” 

Si looked pleased, but said nothing. 

“ By-the-way,” added Richard, “ did 
father fret any because I didn’t come 
home to help get the rowen in?” 

“Yes, he scolded a little; but it is 
nearly all in, and I told him you w'ould 
help us to-morrow.” 

“ That I will. Si ; be sure and wake 
me early. I had an invitation from 
Captain Leigh to dinner and to a 
dance in the evening.” 

“ Do you dance ?” said Si, his gray 
eyes opening w’ide. 

“ Yes ; I found that was considered a 
necessary accomplishment at Harvard, 
and so took a few private lessons. I’ll 
teach you, if you want to learn.” 

“I never saw anybody dance, Dick, 
and don’t think I have any use for it 
myself : would like to see you at it.” 

“ You should. Si, if I could find a 
partner in Go -down. Do you think 
Polly would be an apt scholar?” 

Si laughed heartily at the idea. 
“She would want to go it barefoot,” 
he said. 

“ Which wouldn’t be quite en reglep 
replied Richard. “Well, good -night, 
old fellow. Wake me early for the 
hay-field.” 

The brothers occupied separate beds 
in the same room. Richard, though a 
good sleeper, was restless to-night. He 
tossed and turned ; for the thought of 
w^hat he had resolved to do kept him 
awake, thinking over and over hoW 
best to approach the father of his 
Alice, and what words to choose. He 
got up, and walked back and forth un- 
der the big elm in front of the house. 
At last, just before dawn, he returned 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


37 


to his bed, and fell asleep. Si did not 
waken him, but had been himself at 
work two hours in the field when Dick 
came out with his scythe. “ Where’s 
father?” he asked. 

Gone into Oldport with a load of 
apples,” said Si. ‘‘ I told him that you 
and I could finish the grass.” 

‘‘ That we can,” said Richard, falling 
to work in good earnest. His arm 
had not lost its strength, nor his heart 
the will. He worked as fast as his 
brother, and before their father’s re- 
turn the mowing for the day was 
done. Si thought him very silent, and 
wondered at it, for he was always as 
ready to talk as Si to listen. After 
dinner he made himself ready for 
town ; and telling Si that he should 
be at home early, perhaps by supper- 
time, he w^alked to the depot and took 
the train for Oldport. Having made 
up his mind, he was impatient to fight 
his battle — to make one plunge and 
land on the opposite bank of his Ru- 
bicon. 

We have said that Captain Leigh 
was a graduate of Harvard College. 
His father had followed the sea in ear- 
ly life, retiring, when hardly past mid- 
dle-age, with a large fortune. He sent 
his son to college, hoping that he would 
thus lose any of the desire for going to 
sea which he might have felt as a boy. 
But what boy with any spirit of ad- 
venture in him, who lives by the ocean, 
who sees ships go and come, and has 
been lulled to sleep in his cradle by 
the music of its waves, that does not 
long to feel the ship’s deck beneath 
his feet, and to guide the white-winged 
courser on her watery way ? 

Otis Leigh promised his father that 


he would go through the college 
course, and he kept his word ; but he 
did not say that he would not go to 
sea. 

At the very moment when he re- 
ceived his diploma, he was- thinking 
of his father’s ship Marathon^ which 
was loading at India Wharf, and he 
rushed from the old church to the 
wharf to secure a mate’s place. Cap- 
tain Osgood and the boy were friends, 
and Otis had laid his plans long before, 
when the ship was in port the year pre- 
vious. It was a great disappointment 
to the father, who had hoped to make 
a landsman of his son ; but, after seeing 
him on board, and wishing him a good 
voyage, he walked up to State Street, 
saying to himself, “ It is in the blood, 
I suppose. I remember how I felt 
when a boy; might as well expect a 
fish to live on land as a boy who has 
smelled salt-water all his life.” 

The son followed the sea for ten 
years or more, took a share in his fa- 
ther’s Calcutta business, and prospered 
in his way. He retired early, and his 
father in old age lived with his son, en- 
joying more of his society, perhaps, 
than if he had chosen another profes- 
sion. He was certainly the richer for 
the enterprise of the son, for there was 
great confidence in a firm which was 
established by the grandfather sixty 
years before, and now headed by the 
grandson. ' It was looked upon as one 
of the most solid American firms in 
Calcutta. “As good as the Bank of 
England,” was a common expression 
of the firm, “ Otis Leigh & Sons.” 

Captain Leigh always spent an hour 
in the morning after breakfast in the 
Merchants’ Reading-room; and after 


38 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


that might be found in his office on 
Water Street — his “ cabin,” as he chose 
to call it — where he wrote his letters, 
and held conferences with the captains 
who sailed his vessels. 

Thither Richard directed his steps 
on this eventful day, dreading the in- 
terview, but determined “to get it 
over,” as he said to himself — to know 
his fate, and bear it, if adverse, with 
what courage he might. He found 
Captain Leigh alone, busy writing 
letters. He gave the young man a 
pleasant “ Good - evening,” but turned 
back again to his writing with an air 
which Richard interpreted to mean, 
“ What in the world can he want of 
me to-day, after his visit of yester- 
day?” then, after writing a moment, 
he laid aside his pen, and looked u-p at 
his guest, who was still standing. 

“ If you please. Captain Leigh,” said 
Richard, “ I have a little business with 
you, if you can spare me a few min- 
utes.” 

“ As soon as I have finished my let- 
ters, which must go by to-night’s mail. 
Here is the Advertiser of this morning ; 
you may like to look into it.” 

Richard took the paper, but was as 
ignorant of the news of the day half 
an hour afterward as if the paper had 
been a blank sheet. Just as the cap- 
tain had sealed and directed his last 
letter, a rough-looking sailor came into 
the office. Captain Leigh in his office, 
transacting business, was not the affa- 
ble, social man which he seemed at 
home. His manner was stern, almost 
forbidding ; and when the sailor, pull- 
ing his cap off, asked if he could find 
a place in a ship that was to sail the 
next day, the captain motioned him to 


stand aside, and said, “ Wait.” “ Novv% 
Mr. Rogers, I am at leisure for you.” 
Poor Richard looked at the sailor and 
hesitated, and then a blush spread over 
his face as he stammered out, “ If you 
please, sir, I will wait.” 

“ Got into difficulty in college and 
wants to borrow money,” thought the 
captain ; “ come to the wrong place, 
he’ll find.” — “ Well, Parkins, what do 
you want?” 

“ To go sailor on the Katahdin^ sir.” 

“You are the fellow that got drunk 
and beat your wife last week ! Go 
out of the office; I have nothing for 
you.” 

The voice w^as stern and loud, and so 
decided that the poor fellow dared not 
even stop to plead for himself. As 
Richard saw the frown and heard the 
w^ords, he w^ondered if he should re- 
ceive as abrupt a dismissal. 

The captain, with his chair half turn- 
ed from his writing-table, his face 
grave, for the shadow of displeasure 
was still upon it, waited for the young 
man to speak, resolved in his own mind 
to tell him that if he had got into debt 
foolishly, he must work it out on the 
farm. Courage comes to the brave 
always in the moment of greatest dan- 
ger. Richard was now front to the 
foe — it was a struggle for life, and the 
heart that had been beating so fast be- 
came calm. He rose and said, with a 
voice as steady as old Put’s before the 
wolf’s den, “ Captain Leigh, you may 
think me too bold and aspiring when 
I tell you that I love your daughter, 
and have come to ask your permission 
to win her for a wife, if I can.” He 
paused and stood, hat in hand, but 
with a quiet, manly bearing that, un- 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


39 


consciously, had more effect than his 
words. 

The captain was evidently taken by 
surprise. He did not speak for what 
seemed hours to Richard. He caught 
up his pen and laid it down, shut and 
opened his penknife, run his hand 
through his hair, and moved uneasily 
in his seat. Then, seeing that Richard 
was standing, he said, ‘‘ Sit down, Mr. 
Rogers : this is a surprise to me, and 
you will pardon me if I am not ready 
with an answer.” 

thank you, sir, for not sending 
me away as quickly as you did poor 
Parkins.” 

The captain smiled. ‘U4y ! this is 
a different case. But, young man, you 
know not what you ask — the girl is 
the joy of my eye, the light of our 
home; dearer to me than all my ships 
that sail the sea.” 

know that, sir. I have known 
her since we were children at Dummer 
together, and I am aware of our dif- 
ferent positions in life. I am a poor 
farmer’s boy ; but I have health and 
strength, and if I can have her promise 
to be mine, I think, sir,- 1 should need 
no help to win my way in the world.” 

Captain Leigh was a man who had 
had wide experience and a knowledge 
of human nature. Now that the first 
surprise was over, he thought rapidly 
and wisely. 

As to family, sir, the Rogers come 
of as good stock as the Leighs. The 
mere difference of wealth, too, in this 
country, is trifling at your age.” Rich- 
ard’s eyes brightened ; the captain’s 
own hand had knocked down the out- 
posts of the castle which had seemed 
the strongest to capture. “But how 


is it with the lady herself? You don’t 
suppose that I am one of those fathers 
who would give a child in marriage 
without her consent, or influence her 
to give her hand if her heart didn’t go 
with it. Have you told her of vour 
love?” 

“No, Captain Leigh; but if I had 
no hope that she had some interest in 
me, I should not have come to you. I 
know my own heart, and I cannot con- 
tinue to visit your house, to see her, 
and conceal my feelings. Will you 
give me permission to win the prize ?” 

“You may try,” said the captain. 
“You have shown a sense of honor 
rare among young men, and I show 
my appreciation of it by giving this 
consent. I do not anticipate victory 
for you ; am inclined to think that 
Alice has a free heart yet, and prefers 
her father to any suitor. You may 
try, young man, but I shall beat you in 
this contest, though I might come off 
second-best in winning the Cambridge 
prize for the best Greek oration. I see 
by the papers that you won it.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Richard, as he took 
his hat. “Allow me, sir, to thank you 
for your kindness this morning.” 

“You may wish, hereafter, that I 
had given you as short and sharp a 
dismissal as Parkins got ; for beauty’s 
frown is harder for a young man to 
encounter than the growl of an old salt 
like myself.” 

“I thank you, nevertheless,” said 
Richard, as he passed out of the office. 
The clock struck five, but he did not 
heed it, nor recall to mind that the 
train left in ten minutes, and that, un- 
less he took it. Si would not have his 
company at supper, as he had prom- 


40 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


ised ; but be walked directly to the 
Leigh mansion. Fortune favored him. 
Alice was in the garden, cutting flow- 
ers for a group of Sunday-school chil- 
dren, who were making ready for a 
festival on the next morning. Rich- 
ard aided in the work, filling the 
baskets in a short time ; and as the 
children went away with shouts and 
laughter, he turned to walk by the side 
of Alice. The grounds were ample, 
running from the- ridge, or upland, to 
the broad meadow below ; the day 
was fine, and sky and earth beautiful 
to look upon ; but these t-wo had little 
consciousness of the grand view from 
the hill, or of the soft verdure and 
spreading elms in the valley. If Rich- 
ard had borne a bold front before the 
stern captain, he was humble now as a 
child at prayer. As he looked upon 
Alice, lovely in her pure girlhood, he 
thought it presumption in him to ex- 
pect to win her. He told her of his 
love in low tones, and in a voice that 
trembled with emotion. She heard 
him with downcast eyes and blushing 
cheek, but was too truthful and too in- 
genuous to conceal from him her own 
heart. Their love had budded long 
ago, almost unconsciously to them- 
selves, and here was the ‘‘ flower, con- 
summate in its growth” — a first love 
that bade fair to run as smoothly as 
the river that gladdened their birth- 
place. When the captain came home 
to tea about seven o’clock in the even- 
ing, he was met by his wife on the 
porch — “Otis, come right up to my 
room a minute — come, quick !” her face 
full of perplexity. Her husband obey- 
ed. She shut the door, and then, fall- 
ing into her easy-chair, burst into tears. 


“What is the trouble, wife? No 
bad news from the boys, I trust.” 

“Just think of it, Otis! that young 
Rogers is here, and our Alice came to 
me as I was dressing for the concert 
this evening, and throwing her arms 
round my neck, said, ‘Mother, Richard 
has asked me to be his wife, and I am 
so happy !’ ” 

The captain w’as taken aback, and 
felt a strange, choking sensation Jiim- 
self. He put his arms behind him, and 
walked back and forth a minute before 
answering his wife, she, meanwhile, 
sobbing and wiping her eyes. 

“Well, wife,” said the captain, “I 
suppose such trouble as this comes 
sooner or later to parents who have 
daughters ; but Alice is so young that 
I had hoped to keep her to ourselves 
for some years. I had no idea the 
young fellow would win the game ; but 
he is a worthy young man, and if I 
must give Alice away, I think she can- 
not choose better.” 

Mrs. Leigh started to her feet, her 
tears suddenly checked and a flush of 
anger on her face. 

“Do you mean to say that you will 
give your consent for our Alice to 
marry one of the Go -down boys, a 
poor farmer’s son ?” 

“Why not? He is a fine -looking 
fellow, with good habits; stands well 
in his class; will get one of the high- 
est appointments when he graduates, 
which will be very soon; and has be- 
haved in this matter with honor, for 
he asked my consent to address Alice.” 

“ And you gave it. Captain Leigh ?” 

She always gave her husband his 
title of captain when she was disposed 
to find fault with him. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


41 


“ What else could I do ? I had no 
idea that Pet loved him, and if I had, I 
don’t know as I should have acted dif- 
ferently.” 

“What will everybody say?” groan- 
ed the poor wife. 

“Sure enough; I never thought of 
that. What do you think they will 
say ?” 

“ It will be the town - talk. Captain 
Leigh : you know it will ! There’s 
Mrs. Fletcher ; what do you suppose 
she will think?” 

“ You said the other day she had an 
empty head ; if so, perhaps she will not 
trouble us with her thoughts.” 

“You know what I mean, Otis. Has 
it not always been understood, at least, 
if not talked about, that Arthur would 
marry .^lice ?” 

“My dear wife,” said the captain, 
stepping toward her and laying his 
hand upon her shoulder, “ this is what 
I have feared. Arthur is a handsome 
fellow, with agreeable manners, but he 
is shallow and unprincipled, unfit to 
hold the happiness of our darling in 
his power. I would rather, a hundred 
times rather, give her to young Rogers. 
Come, cheer uj) ; he isn’t out of college 
yet — it may come to nothing serious; 
young love and first love, you know. 
The tea-bell has rung : we will at least 
be civil to him.” 

As he passed out into the large hall, 
he found Alice waiting for him in the 
recess of the broad window. 

“ Oh, papa !” she said, as she came 
toward him, and he enfolded her in his 
arms — “ oh, papa, how kind you are ! I 
love you better than ever.” 

“Ay, my Pet! how is that? Mam- 
ma tells me you have been giving your 


heart away. I am dreadfully cut up 
about it. I thought I was the only 
man you cared much about. I shall 
be jealous. Pet.” 

“ No, you will not, papa. You know 
that there is a locked chamber in my 
heart all for you; nobody can steal in 
there. But you will like Richard, will 
you not, papa ? He thinks you are the 
noblest and best man in this world.” 

“ Heigh-ho ! Is that the way he wins 
you ? But what can we do about your 
mother ? She’ will never get over your 
marrying a ‘Go -down boy.’ It is as 
great a disgrace as if I got my living 
making leather into boots and shoes, 
instead of buying hides in India.” 

Alice smiled, and kissed her father; 
then, turning round, as she ran down 
the staircase, she raised her finger, and, 
with an arch look at her father, re- 
peated ; 

“ ‘ The rank is but the guinea stamp, 

The man’s the gowd for a’ that.’ ” 

“The little minx!” said her father 
to himself. “ I can’t say ‘ No ’ if she 
loves him.” 

When he met Richard Rogers a 
minute afterward in the drawing-room, 
he said, pleasantly, 

“Well, young man, you have storm- 
ed the castle, and won, have you not?” 

“ I came on the king’s highway, sir, 
and with his permission.” 

“ True, it was an honorable challenge 
to arms ; and I confess, had I known 
that the portcullis was already down 
and the drawbridge up, I should have 
made more resistance.” 

Silas junior waited supper a long 
time that evening. He had filled the 


42 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


pitcher with milk from his favorite 
‘‘Jersey,” and had gathered a bowl of 
the largest blackberries from the past- 
ure for his brother, then walked in 
the direction of the depot to meet him ; 
but no Richard appeared. The train 
stopped and discharged two or three 
women, then puffed its onward way. 

There was no later train, and Si ate 
his supper alone; for his father never 
waited a moment after the usual time. 
There was a new moon in the evening, 
and, having nothing else to do, he har- 
nessed his horse and rode out toward 
Oldport. He had gone nearly to the 
“ big rock,” when he thought he saw 
somebody sitting upon it watching the 
crescent moon as she sailed like a light 
boat in the eastern horizon. 

“ Halloo !” cried Richard, who rec- 
ognized the horse at once, “is that 
you. Si ? That is lucky, provided you 
will give me a ride.” 

“ Jump in, Dick. Were you walking 
home ?” 

“Yes, Si. I forgot my promise to 
be at home to supper ; but I’ll tell you 
all about it. Suppose we ride for an 
hour : I must tell it before you go to 
bed.” He then related the events of 
the day, and talked in glowing lan- 
guage of the wonderful happiness that 
liad come to him. “You remember 
her. Si, at Dummer, don’t you? You 
never took any notice of girls, I be- 
lieve, but she was such a lovely creat- 
ure, you must recall her face.” 

No human eyes saw the blush that 
spread over Si’s freckled face, mounting 
to the roots of his hair, nor the ner- 
vous twitching of his lips, as he said, 
after some hesitation, “Yes, I remember 
her, Dick, and I have seen her two or 


three times since then, when I have car- 
ried butter to Squire Leigh’s house. 
You have wonderful luck, Dick; and 
yet, I don’t know but there is luck on 
her side too. There are not many bet- 
ter-looking fellows than yourself, and I 
reckon you are about as smart as any 
of ’em, barring the money.” 

“ I can make that, I am sure I can 
make that, when I am once fairly start- 
ed in my profession,” said Richard. 
“If father can keep his purse open 
for another year, I shall be all right. 
Seems to me the good man is rather 
down in the mouth lately. He talks 
little, keeps about his work all the time, 
and goes to bed before daylight is out 
of the sky. He never complains of my 
bills, and perhaps he has no reason, for 
my two prizes have helped me along, 
and my school last winter netted me a 
hundred dollars or so, clear ; but there 
are expenses which one never thinks 
about when they enter college — socie- 
ties, and extra books, and so forth.” 

“ I dare say, Dick, you haven’t had 
all the money you wanted ; liow is it?” 
said Si. 

“I do very well, old fellow; but I 
should like an advance for the next 
quarter. I haven’t said a word to fa- 
ther about it; for when I came home 
and found that you had not built the 
new barn that he had set his heart 
upon, only patched up the other, I was 
afraid that I was drawing too hard 
upon him.” 

“He will be all right when he gets 
the dividends from the railroad,” said 
Si. “ They are a long time in coming, 
but they will come at last, and then the 
barn will go up to a short-metre tune.” 

As the brothers rode through the 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


43 


little settlement the houses were dark, 
for at this early hour the tired labor- 
ers had sought their beds, and "were in 
that heavy sleep which follows hard out- 
of-door work ; all the lights were out, 
save in one small window — that of Pol- 
ly’s house. Here the door was still ajar, 
and at the sound of carriasre wheels 

O 

she threw it open wide. 

“ Is that you. Si ? Stop a minute !” 

The young men drove close to the 
door and waited for Polly to speak; 
not long, however, for she was excited 
with anger. 

I say. Si, wLat business had you to 
put that hundred dollars which father 
told you to invest for me into that 
pesky railroad ?” 

“ Because, you see, Polly, I wanted 
you to make money.” 

“You did, did you? Well, you 
might as well have thrown it into the 
river. There ain’t no money to be 
made out of that consarn, and you 
ought to have known it. One of them 
engineers that helped make it was 
along here to-day, and he says he 
wouldn’t give ten dollars a share for 
all your stock.” 

“ Much as he knows about it, Polly. 
My father is a cautious man : I think 
you can trust him.” 

“I don’t know. Si. He ain’t very 
chipper nowadays; and maybe that’s 
the reason.” 

“Don’t you be worried, Polly. I 
will buy your share to-morrow, if you 
will sell.” 

“That I will. Si, if you will make out 
the papers all right ; and. Si, I’ll take 
some land for it, if you’ve a mind, in- 
stead of the money. Will you give 
me a couple of acres jining my paster?” 


“ What, the old orchard, Polly ?” 

“ Yes, the old orchard; it don’t bear 
many apples.” 

“ No, not enough to pay for gather- 
ing. Yes, you can have that if you 
want.” 

“ Why, Polly, what will you do with 
more land ?” said Richard. 

“ What will you do with more lam- 
in’, Dick; hain’t you got enough? 
Maybe land is as good as lamin’, I 
rather have it. Lamin’ and beauty, 
that’s what you are arter, Dick. I saw 
you a ridin’ with Captain Leigh’s dar- 
ter. Do you think she will like your 
relations, Si and me ?” 

“ Get up. Brownie !” said Si to the 
horse. “It is time we were in bed, 
Dick. — Good-night, Polly ; I will make 
out the papers to-morrow;” and he 
started homeward, not giving his broth- 
er time to answer Polly’s question. 

“Do you suppose there is anything 
in what she says?” Richard asked his 
brother. 

“Of course not, Dick. Some of 
those engineers were angry with the 
contractors, owing to some misunder- 
standing as to their pay, and they have 
got up this story. Then Polly has 
had one of her dreams. She is always 
dreaming about finding some great 
treasure amidst these rocks. You may 
remember that Aunt Betsey had faith 
in an Indian woman — Shawny — who, 
father says, was a wicked old hag, that 
all the children feared as they did 
bears in the woods ; but, somehow or 
other. Aunt Betsey got into her good 
graces, and she gave her a lot of stones 
that had lead in them, real lead — no 
mistake — and some silver too. The old 
story ran that Shawny stole ’em from 


44 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


the devil himself out at the Den. As 
to the spoon, there is no doubt that it 
is pure silver; but since Shawny’s time, 
nobody has got silver spoons out of 
our rocks, nor likely to, I guess. Pol- 
ly’s thoughts all run to money-making, 
for the mere pleasure of getting rich ; 
but she has no more idea what money 
is good for than she has of the pretty 
laces and beautiful ribbons that ladies 
wear. Did you see her baskets of 
berries and her pail of eggs, all ready 
to sell to-morrow? She will harness 
Dobbin by daylight, and be off to Old- 
port before we get breakfast.” 

‘‘ What is life worth,” thought Rich- 
ard, as he entered his own home, if it 
must be bounded by such a narrow 
horizon as Go -down? I thank God 
that life holds so much fulness and 
beauty for me. It is joy to live;” and 
while Si unharnessed the horse, water- 
ed, and stalled him, Richard walked 
back and forth under the great elm, 
too happy to seek his bed. Doubts 


and fears had driven sleep from his 
pillow the night before, and now joy’s 
rosy dawn had risen for him, and turn- 
ed night to day. Si was not aware 
that his brother was still out-of-doors 
when he went to his room (they never 
turned a key in those days) ; but, too 
tired to wait for him, he went to bed, 
and dropped into a troubled sleej). 
Poor fellow ! he had some fears which 
he dared not share with Richard. If 
I can only keep him from all anxie- 
ty till he has graduated, it may come 
all right,” he said to himself, when 
he awoke from that first short sleep. 
“Now, more than ever before, Dick 
must have no fear, no care.” These 
twin-brothers loved each other with a 
love strong as death; but just then 
Richard’s heart was full of anothep 
image, which, though it did not drive 
his brother out, obscured him for a 
while; and Si’s affection was too 
strong and pure for doubt and jealousy 
to weaken it. 




CHAPTEE III. 

FARM LIFE IN ^^GO-DOWNr 


The course of true lov^e ran smooth- 
ly for once, as nothing occurred to mar 
the hopes, or even raise the jealousy of 
Richard Rogers. Alice was one of 
those true, loving souls, rare in the 
world, but found now and then, like a 
pure, white dove or a thornless rose, 
who trusted her lover with her whole 
soul, and held him in her heart as she 
did in her prayer, with as much rev- 
erence as love. He graduated with 
honor; and by the advice of Captain 
Leigh, and in accordance with his own 
wishes, was about to enter upon the 
study of the law, when an event oc- 
curred which changed the whole tenor 
of his life. Captain Leigh’s elder son 
died in Calcutta, and it was necessary 
that some one should go out to take 
his place, and look after the interests 
of the firm. The second son had just 
established himself in business in Hew 
York, with such a prospect of suc- 
cess that he was unwilling to make 
a change. He had seen Richard, 
thought well of him, and, believing in 


the integrity and energy of his charac- 
ter, proposed that he should take his 
brother’s place in the firm, working 
upon a stated salary for a few years. 
Captain Leigh approved the plan, and 
to Richard it presented two strong 
inducements — he could be married at 
once and take his wife with him, and 
the compensation offered would enable 
him to live in comfort. Alice was not 
ambitious, and rather than part with 
Richard, was willing to submit to live 
quietly and with economy. Poor Mrs. 
Leigh had gradually become reconciled 
to the marriage of her daughter with 
a Go-Down boy, the more so, perhaps, 
in that Arthur Fletcher had made a 
great misalliance by marrying a silly 
little shop-girl, “ with no family at all,” 
as Mrs. Leigh said ; “ for she didn’t 
know her own father, much less who 
her grandfather was; whereas, every- 
body knew that the famous English 
martyr was Richard’s ancestor.” 

‘‘The ^irl is a beauty, nevertheless,” 
said Captain Leigh, “ if she did stand 


46 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


behind a counter. Arthur has follow- 
ed in his father’s steps, and can boast 
of the fairest bride in Oldport.” 

“ What fools you men are,” said his 
wife, ‘‘ to think more of a pretty face 
than of a good heart !” 

“It is a pity; but you speak the 
truth, my dear.” 

“Wait and see your own daughter 
as a bride,” said his wife. 

Mrs. Leigh would not be satisfied 
with a private or a quiet wedding for 
Alice. The large mansion must be 
filled with guests, and the captain "was 
only too willing to gratify all her wish- 
es in this respect. The ceremony was 
performed in the Episcopal church — 
St. Paul’s — one of the smallest and 
quaintest old churches in New Eng- 
land. It was built of wood more than 
a hundred years ago. The old wood- 
en galleries still hang low around three 
sides, and the Commandments, written 
on slate-stone on the back of the chan- 
cel wall, look so old that children fan- 
cy that they are the identical stones 
which Moses hewed and God wrote 
upon. An ancient church -yard, sur- 
rounded by a stone -wall, adjoins the 
church, and two elms fling their 
branches over the entrance doors of 
this venerable building. Here the 
good Bishop Bass led his flock in 
ways of righteousness, and Dr. Morse, 
his beloved successor, followed, a lov- 
ing and patient pastoi*, for nearly forty 
years. Here, too, Horton gave him- 
self and his earthly treasures to the 
church. Here, the venerable Tyng first 
read the service in his childhood, and 
caught from this altar the sacred fire 
which has burned for more than half 
a century in his consecrated heart. 


The little church was filled with fair 
women and admiring men on the day 
when Richard and Alice were married. 
The galleries and pews beneath them 
were wreaths of beauty. Above and 
below, the flowers were twined around 
the railing, bright eyes sparkled, and 
gay ribbons fluttered ; while the body 
of the church was filled with the guests 
who had been bidden to the wedding 
feast. 

When Richard Rogers stood at the 
altar, amidst the hush of this gay as- 
sembly, he had not one thought of the 
many eyes fixed upon him — eyes of 
men who, when they saw his stalwart 
form, quiet manner, and grave face, 
were not inclined to censure Captain 
Leigh for accepting such a son-in-law; 
and the expressive eyes of women, al- 
ways kindling at the sight of manly 
beauty: the church might have been 
empty for all the effect of this upon 
him. He held his joy wdlh lowliness 
of heart ; and when he received Alice, 
so lovely in her bridal robes that the 
audience could not suppress a low 
murmur of approbation, he clasped her 
hand, with a prayer to Heaven that 
never, through him, might one shadow 
darken her life. To Alice, as to most 
young brides, no such feeling of awe 
or responsibility came ; she was simply 
loving and fearless, trusting Richard 
with her whole heart, and proud in her 
promise to love and honor him. 

In a corner of one of the pews, not 
far from the chancel, half hidden from 
sight by the waving plumes and flow- 
ers of the ladies’ bonnets, sat Silas, the 
twin -brother. He is a quiet man, as 
the reader has seen ; and Oldport peo- 
ple often remarked upon the contrast 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


47 


in the brothers, setting Richard down 
as having left his brother but a modi- 
cum of good - looks or intellect when 
they fought their way together into 
this world. 

‘‘ Dick has got the lion’s share,” said 
one old farmer, when he heard of the 
elder brother’s success in Harvard, and 
‘‘good luck,” — as he called it — “in mar- 
rying into one of the richest families 
in the county.” 

“ Si ain’t so bad - lookin’, arter all, 
when he gets on his Sunday does, and 
you look him right in the face,” said 
the farmer’s wife : “ he ain’t ripened up 
on a suddint, like Dick, but he has im- 
proved amazin’ly, since he went to dis- 
trick school ; and I shouldn’t wonder if 
he’d turn out like our Roxbury russets 
— the better for keepin’.” 

Alice expressed a similar idea one 
day not long before the 'wedding. 
Knowing Richard’s love for his broth- 
er, she had often invited Si to her 
home, but some excuse was always 
made for not accepting the invitation. 
In a girlish spirit of mingled fun and 
kindness, she mounted her pony one 
fine morning, and told her mother that 
she should ride as far as Go -down. 
Richard had gone to New York on 
some business for Captain Leigh, and 
she had no timidity in going alone. It 
was a road almost as much travelled as 
the streets of her native town. There 
was a bracing air and a bright sky. 
Alice rode well, and her trim little 
figure was set off to advantage by her 
riding-habit, as was her bright face by 
the jaunty little hat. 

She had no false pride about Rich- 
ard’s family, and would gladly have 
welcomed them to her house. The 


pride was theirs — that false notion, so 
often found in the farm-house, that 
townspeople look down upon their ru- 
ral neighbors. Polly Kiar was well 
known to Alice, and though but a sec- 
ond-cousin to Richard, was consider- 
ed almost as one of their own family. 
When Alice came to the little house 
standing by the roadside, with its one 
scrawny lilac bush by the window, 
its little garden by the side with its 
rough stone fence, she found the door 
wide open, and Polly sitting just in- 
side, spinning on a little wheel. Aunt 
Betsey had been a famous sj)iuner in 
her day, and had left a quantity of 
hatcheiled flax ready for the wheel. 
Since Polly had taken to wearing 
stockings, she had spun her own yarn, 
both linen and woollen. It is a pretty 
sight to see a woman spinning on a 
little wheel ; and Polly never looked 
better than on that morning, as she sat 
in the sunny door- way, with the small 
wooden wand in her right hand, with 
which she touched the wheel, while the 
thread in the other wound itself round 
the spindle to low, buzzing music. 

Alice drew rein at once, attracted by 
the sight. 

“ Good-morning, Polly : may I come 
in ?” alighting, as she spoke, upon the 
horse-block. 

“ La ! yes, if you’re a mind ter. I’ll 
put the wheel away.” 

“ No, no ! please not do that. I 
want to see you spin.” 

“ Lawful sake ! Miss Alice, you 
don’t say ! As if you would care to 
see a body spin. Here, I’ll take the 
horse.” (Alice held him by the bridle.) 
“I allers hitch under Cousin Silas’s 
elm,” leading the horse as she spoke 


48 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


to the hitching - post in this shady 
spot. 

The two girls sat down near the 
wheel, while Polly went on with her 
spinning. 

“I think it is very pretty work, 
Polly,” said Alice, after watching the 
process for some time ; ‘‘ please may I 
try? I would like to learn.” 

“Well, that beats me!” said Polly. 
“ As if you’d ever care to spin ! I 
s’pose you iday on the piany ?” 

“Yes; but I should like to do this 
too.” And she laid off her hat and 
gloves, and very meekly followed Pol- 
ly’s directions; but the thread would 
come off the distaff too fast and get 
snarled on the spindle, much to Polly’s 
amusement. 

“Well, I declar ! I s’pose it don’t 
come nateral to spin any more than to 
play the piany. Naow, if I should 
try that, the music would get snarled as 
bad as this ere flax does in your hands.” 

Alice’s attempt, though awkward 
enough at first, was successful; but 
she was astonished when, finding that 
she could make the thread run smooth- 
ly from the distaff, and form a regular 
slope on the spindle, she saw by her 
watch that it was after six o’clock. 
The time had passed rapidly, and Pol- 
ly’s tongue had wagged as fast. In 
response to an invitation to be pres- 
ent at the wedding, Polly said, “I sup- 
posed, like as not, that I should have 
an invite, seeing as how Dick is my 
cousin, and we were raised on the 
same farm; but I never was among 
grand folks in my life, and you might 
be ashamed on me.” 

“ I am ashamed of none of Richard’s 
family,” said Alice. 


“There is one. Miss Alice, as you 
needn’t be ashamed of, if you knew 
him; though folks in Oldport don’t 
vally him, ’cause he’s a farmer. But 
Si is a heap better - lookin’ than he 
used to be, and his eyes are ’mazin’ 
pretty eyes when you once get a good 
squint at ’em.” 

“Oh, I forgot, Polly; it was part of 
my errand to-day, to see Silas, and ask 
him to the wedding. I wished to do 
it before the regular invitations were 
sent out, because Richard said that he 
was afraid he would not be inclined to 
come.” 

“ No wonder. Miss Alice. You see, 
they’re twins, and Si has nobody else 
to love besides Dick, unless you call 
the critters somebody; he kinder takes 
to the bosses and cows and pigs, and 
they to him; it is nateral, seein’ he 
raises ’em. But Dick is all the world 
to him — the old man. Cousin Silas, 
isn’t the same man that he was afore 
his wife died. He don’t care for noth- 
in’ nor nobody but work. It is work 
from mornin’ till night, a layin’ up ev- 
ery cent for his boys, I suppose. Lat- 
terly he has become as silent and sol- 
em as a gravestun ; more so, for I can’t 
make out nothin’ by his face, and I can 
read what’s on the stun. He’s thinkin’ 
of his death, or else of gettin’ married 
again. As I Tvas say in’. Si will be 
awfully lonesome when Dick goes off 
for good: it will be harder than you 
think for the twin -brother to give 
him up to you.” 

“ Oh, Polly, it cannot be for long ! 
He must get married himself.” 

“ So they say — all the women round 
here. Sally Poor don’t say, but thinks 
more, and puts on yellow ribbons, and 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


49 


asks liim to her house to sewin’-socie- 
ty and singiu’-meetin’s. But she can’t 
get him no more than I can catch them 
’ere doves with salt; ’tain’t no go. 
He’s taken to readin’ lately, and he 
says books are good friends. There 
he comes now, Miss Alice; just take a 
good squint at his eyes.” 

Si had seen a strange horse under 
the elm, and had come out to look at 
it. Alice went toward him and ex- 
tended her little hand. As it lay for 
an instant in his hard, well-worn palm, 
she saw the smile that lighted his face, 
and shone from a pair of blue eyes, 
sweet and gentle in expression as those 
of a lovely woman. She felt at once 
that she could love him as a brother 
for those eyes alone, aside from his re- 
lationship to Richard. 

I have a great favor to ask,” she 
said, a blush overspreading her face as 
she spoke. “I have overstayed my 
time, and my father is unwilling that 
I should ride alone at dusk. Could 
you see me through the bit of pine- 
woods yonder ?” 

“I was going to Oldport this even- 
ing,” said Si ; ‘^so if you will sit a few 
minutes longer with Polly, I will put 
the saddle on Meg and go all the way 
with you.” 

That will be delightful ! Meg and 
Lily are friends, you know, and we will 
have a canter.” 

“Did you get a look at his eyes?” 
said Polly, when Alice returned to her 
seat. 

“Yes; they are beautiful, Polly. I 
wonder I never noticed them before.” 

“ They are awful comfortin’ when I 
am sick, or ha’nt had good luck,” said 
Polly. 


Polly sat on her door-step and watch- 
ed the two ride away, keeping her eyes 
fixed upon them till they were lost in 
the pine-wood. 

“Well, I dunno,” she sighed; “he 
isn’t harnsome like Dick, and ain’t got 
lamin’ that big folks think so much 
of, but he’s got as good a heart, maybe 
better. As Aunt Betsey used to say, 
if rocks has got gold in ’em they’re 
worth somethin’, if you can get at it. 
Now, Si’s goodness is like the gold in 
the rock — it is hard to make people be- 
lieve it is there.” With which reflec- 
tion she went into her house, and open- 
ed her cupboard to find some supper. 

Alice talked more than Si as the two . 
rode to Oldport. He had asked her 
some question about India, which led 
her to tell him what her father had 
often told her of his life in that coun- 
try — what a strange, idle life it is for 
foreign ladies, who spend a great deal 
of time in hammocks, fanned by ser- 
vants; and of the poisonous insects, 
centipedes, and snakes that abound in 
that climate, so that one dare not put 
on a shoe in the morning without look- 
ing into it, nor sleep without a white 
canopy over their heads, lest some of 
these horrid things should come down 
from the ceiling and steal upon their 
victim unawares. 

“ I think I should like the old farm 
almost as well as such a climate as that. 
Miss Alice,” said Si. 

“Of course you would. I think it 
is beautiful on the farm ; but Richard 
has got his fortune to make, you know, 
and papa’s business there needs atten- 
tion ; and perhaps we are right in think- 
ing that it is the best thing for Rich- 
ard to do.” 


4 


50 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Si. “It 
pleases my brother to go, and it seems 
the readiest way to make his fortune. 
I had hoped to see him a lawyer; he 
has a taste for study, and is called a 
good speaker.” 

“I think he is a born orator, Mr. 
Rogers. I have heard him twice, and 
papa heard him too, and he says it is 
a pity to spoil a born orator by send- 
ing him to Calcutta to trade in hides 
and gunny bags.” And as she sj)oke 
she turned her face toward Silas, and 
laughed a pleasant, rippling laugh sweet 
to hear. 

Silas was slow to answer, but said, 
as he was arranging something about 
his horse’s neck, “ Perhaps, Miss Alice, 
he may return in a couple of years or 
so, and there will be time then to study 
law.” 

“Just what he said himself; but we 
must not talk about that. I suppose 
you have no secrets from each other. 
How delightful it must be to have a 
twin - brother ! Only think ! I never 
had a sister.” 

“I have always wished that I had 
one,” said Silas. 

“ You will have one now,” said Alice, 
“if you will take me. Will you?” 
again turning toward him, and this 
time extending her hand. “Let us 
shake hands upon it.” 

He gave her his hand. “ I am afraid, 
Miss Alice, you have not gained much. 
I am a poor, awkward country fellow 
— nothing like Richard.” 

But as he spoke, she caught a glimpse 
of his eyes again, and replied, quickly, 
“It will not be hard to like Rich- 
ard’s brother for Richard’s sake; but 
I hope we shall find something in each 


other to like besides that. I am a 
weak, silly little girl, I suppose ; but I 
shall grow wiser and better, living with 
Richard, and by-and-by you will like 
me next to him — I mean to try to 
make you. But you must call me Alice, 
and I shall call you Brother Silas. 
Shall it not be so ?” 

“ Thank you,” said Silas. 

They were ascending the road which 
led to her father’s house at this instant, 
and Captain Leigh had come out to 
look for his daughter. Silas stopped 
only to say “ Good-evening,” and had 
already turned his horse round, when 
Alice called to him, 

“ Silas ! Brother Silas ! stop a minute. 
You will come to the wedding, will you 
not? I’ll not be married if you don’t.” 

“ Then I must come, or poor Rich- 
ard’s life would be in danger ;” and he 
bared his head, again said “ Good-even- 
ing,” and rode away, rode straight on 
in the direction of home, not thinking 
of any business in Oldport. 

.Meg was the comfort and pride of 
Si’s home -life, and, as we must part 
with her soon, we will try to present 
her to the reader as she looked this 
day. Meg was of the Morgan stock, 
and of a dark-bay color, with a little 
white on the hind legs. Her eyes 
were large and prominent, and when 
standing in the stable or at rest were 
calm and mild, showing very little of 
the white; but when Si saddled and 
led her out, and patting her on the 
neck would say, “Come, Meg, we’ll 
have a gay time to-day,” her eyes 
would flash, her cars move, and her 
whole body quiver with the pleasure 
of showing herself on the road. “ She 
learns as quick as Dick used to when 


COUSIlSr POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


he was a school -boy,” Si said, ‘^and 
never forgets anything.” She was 
nearly fifteen hands high, but Aveighed 
less than ten hundred. Her back was 
shorter than Lily’s, and there were 
scarcely any long hairs on her legs, 
Avhich were well-shaped and straight. 
Her shoulders Avere more oblique than 
Lily’s, and her chest deeper; but tail 
and mane, though rich and glossy, Avere 
hardly as long as those of her rival. 
She Avas full betAveen the eyes, Avhich Si 
said Avas proof that she had uncommon 
good-sense. Her hoofs Avere medium 
size, and black and smooth. But Avith 
all her fine qualities, she resembled the 
great Macaulay in having no love for 
dogs. She could make her mile in 
two-thirty if she chose. Some sudden 
ambition stirred Avithin her noAV, or 
the thought of stable and food — as 
good an incentive as any other — and 
she started Avithout Avord or spur from 
her master : he let her have her OAvn 
Avay. His thoughts Avere not Avith his 
horse ; he Avas musing. ‘‘ Yes,” he said 
to himself, “it is well perhaps that 
they should go to India; it may be all 
for the best. Dick AA^ould have needed 
money for his law course, and father 
might have groAvn more silent and 
gloomy, now that it is difficult to get. 
We can mortgage part of the land, but 
that is not pleasant to do. Yes, it is 
Avell as it is. On one account, I am 
sure it is Avell.” A long sigh folloAved 
this reflection, and then Silas, patting 
Meg, said, “Come, come. Lady -bird ; 
you need not shoAV offi now : it is not 
Dick that is riding you ; save your fine 
airs for him.” 

When Si entered his home, it Avas 
silent and dark: the old woman Avho 


¥ 

acted as house-keeper had gone to gos- 
sip Avith a neighbor ; and Mr. Rogers 
Avas in his own room, gone to bed, as 
no candle-light shone from the win- 
doAV. The young man went out to the 
barns and the sheep-yard, gave a look 
at his horses and coavs, and even to the 
pigs, not forgetting the poultry - yard, 
which had been of late too often visit- 
ed by cats or Aveasels, or more respon- 
sible thieves Avho knew Dorkings from 
Shanghais. To Meg he said the last 
good-night, and she returned it by rub- 
bing her head against his shoulder, 
and expressing in her mute Avay her 
love for her master. “ After all,” said 
Si to himself, “ it is a comfort that I 
can teach these dumb animals to love 
me, for love me they do ; even that 
Suffolk pig gives a knowing grunt 
every time I come near, and follows 
me about like a dog, if I let her out of 
her pen. Come, Bose, I have got a 
bone for you.” 

Bose was a shepherd-dog, a faithful 
servant, who Avas never allowed to go to 
Oldport, but Avho always remained on 
the door-step, watching for Si’s return, 
Avhen he was absent, and Avho had made 
the round of the barn-yard Avith him. 

“ Come, Bose, you and I must take 
life as it comes. Finding fault because 
Ave cannot get the white bread-and- 
butter Avill not make the brown crust 
taste better.” 

Bose shook himself, and Avagged 
his tail, and looked into his master’s 
eyes, as if he understood him, Avhich 
in truth I think he did ; for no human 
friend, not even the twin-brother, had 
looked as much into those large, ten- 
der blue eyes as Bose had done, or 
studied their lights and shadoAvs Avith 


52 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


so critical an eye. Bose gnawed his 
bone, and wondered a little, no doubt, 
at the shadow in the eyes he loved so 
well ; but not his to wonder and ques- 
tion, only to sympathize Avith every 
changing mood, and love truly through 
all. That is a dog’s duty ; and Bose 
was true to his inner sense of right. 
When his supper was over, he follow- 
ed his master to his room, and sat at 
his feet, looking up at the face that 
just then Avore a sad expression. 

‘‘Yes, I must go, of course I must 
— am glad that the suit I bought for 
a commencement is fresh and good, 
for Dick needs all the money Ave can 
spare. It Avill only last a few hours. 
One can bear great pain or great joy 
for a little while; either, lasting too 
long, Avill kill. Then it will be fine to 
see our Dick admired by all, as he Avill 
be. He deserves his honors. How to 
live Avithout him is the question for 
me to solve.” As if he Avere unable to 
answer that question, or could solve it 
by reading one of Richard’s college 
books — a work on natural philosophy, 
which opened at a mark, denoting a 
continuous reading of the book, and 
Avas thus employed for one or two 
hours. 

The next morning as he Avas feeding 
the animals who looked to him for 
daily bread, Polly came into the barn, 
the great doors of which had been 
flung wide open, admitting the sun- 
light and cool air of an autumn day, 
and leaning against one of the stalls, 
Avhere Si, clad in farmer’s frock, Avas 
Avatching Meg as she ate her oats, said, 
“ Si, I am going to Richard’s Aved- 
ding. She asked me so pretty, yes- 
terday, that I made up my mind she 


really wants us, for all she is one of 
the grand folks. Wouldn’t you go if 
you was in my place ?” 

Si glanced at the unkempt hair, the 
ragged shoes, the stockings, loose at 
the ankles, the large brown hands, far 
from clean, and at the sunburnt face, 
unrelieved by ribbon or collar, and 
turning away for an instant, took up 
the currying brush (Meg Avas better 
groomed daily than Cousin Polly). “If 
she asked you, Polly, she meant Avhat 
she said, and I am sure she feels kind- 
ly to all Richard’s relations.” 

“I like her. Si. She is as pretty as 
a picter. Jest think of her learning 
to spin ! She Avas ’mazin’ quick at 
her lesson. But, Si, I hain’t nothin’ 
to Avear that Avill answer, I s’pose. 
There’s marm’s plum-colored silk that 
she had before she Avas married, and 
there’s Aunt Betsey’s black sarcenet 
gown that she left to me ; maybe one 
or t’other would do. I’d like to look 
all right, and not disgrace your folks 
at the weddin’.” 

Polly Avas in earnest, and Si saw that 
the girl Avas perplexed. She had come 
to him in all the troubles of her child- 
hood, and he would do his best for her 
now. He came and sat down on the 
stejD of the barn door, and she folloAV- 
ed him. It was a serious business in 
Avhich both felt quite at sea, and need- 
ed compass and light. “I wouldn’t 
wear black, Polly, at a Avedding ; so 
we Avill set aside Aunt Betsey’s sars- 
net. And as your mother’s dress Avas 
made before you Avere born, maybe it 
wouldn’t be quite in style now. Don’t 
ladies change fashions often ?” 

“La ! yes. Si; but I can’t follow the 
fashions any more than I could keep 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


53 


up with your Meg, when she goes her 
two-forty. ’Tain’t the fashion I’m ar- 
tei’jOnly not to make Richard ashamed 
of me.” 

“ Suppose,” said Si, blushing like a 
girl as he spoke, “you think first about 
your head, Polly. You have nice hair, 
if you will only take more pains with 
it. If you should brush it every day 
from now till the wedding as hard as 
I brush Meg’s coat, maybe ’twould 
look glossy and smooth ; and then you 
can do it up with a comb, and tie a 
pretty ribbon round — a blue, say ’’(the 
vision of blue ribbons and fair hair in 
his mind’s eye) — “ no, not blue, but 
pink, perhaps,” he added, as he studied 
the brown face. 

“I’ll do it. Si, if ye say so,” said 
Polly. 

“And then,” added Si, “maybe a 
pair of pretty slippers with a rosette 
in them, and stockings very white and 
fine, cut to fit. Can’t it be done, 
Polly?” 

“I have got some out a whitenin’ 
now on the grass. Will them do ?” 

“Would you mind buying some on 
purpose ?” said Si. “ I have seen them 
that fit without a wrinkle” (again a vi- 
sion of a pair of tiny feet and slim lit- 
tle ankles with their snowy covering), 
“and may be you wouldn’t mind buying 
for once.” 

“ ’Tain’t likely I shall ever be invited 
to a grand wedding again, and the ber- 
ry crop has been ’mazin’ good this year, 
so I’ll buy the stockin’s ; but the both- 
er is to get them to fit as you talk on. 
I wonder if they’ll let a body try ’em 
on at the store. I’ll see.” 

How to get a good fit was beyond 
Si’s knowledge ; but he added, with a 


wisdom that was rare in a bashful 
country boy, “I think, Polly, if a girl 
makes her hair nice and smooth, and 
wears pretty shoes and white stockings, 
’tain’t much matter about the dress.” 

“ Then, perhaps, marm’s’ plum-color- 
ed silk will do. I’ll run and put it on, 
and let you see.” 

As we have said before, Polly was 
slim, and fleet of foot as a squirrel. 
Si had given Meg but a few brushes, 
when she stood in the door-way of the 
barn arrayed in her mother’s wedding 
gown. It was scant and straight in 
skirt, the waist not more than three 
inches deep, and the sleeves capacious 
enough to hold a peck of corn. 

Si shook his head: “I don’t think 
it will do, Polly. Can’t you make it 
over ? Don’t ladies do so sometimes?” 

“ I suppose so,” said Polly, looking 
disappointed ; “ but I never made noth- 
in’ but calico gowns, and them arter 
Aunt Betsey’s pattern.” 

“We will think what is to be done, 
Polly. I must go down to the paster 
to salt the cattle now, and to-night, 
when my work is through for the day, 
we will talk about the gown. Have 
you gloves?” 

“Yes, Si; a pair of real white silk 
that was marm’s weddin’ gloves, laid 
up in a box with lavender, and they 
smell as sweet as a posy.” 

That day Si remembered that he had 
business in Oldport, and he resolved to 
notice the dresses of the ladies, with 
particular reference to Polly. To his 
great pleasure something presented it- 
self which would settle the difficulty. 
The fashion of white “ spencers,” as 
they were called, prevailed at that 
time, similar to what at the present 


54 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


we name garibaldi waists. As he 
looked at them, he thought ’of a gray 
overshot-silk dress whiclf his mother 
used to wear to church, and recalled 
his pleasure, when a little child, led by 
her hand, in seeing it fling off the sun- 
light as if it were dotted with thou- 
sands of tiny silver points. He would 
persuade Polly to buy a spencer, and 
offer her this dress to wear with it. 

When he opened the matter to Pol- 
ly at night, as they met on the door- 
step of her house, she shrank at first 
from the expense, but was ashamed to 
confess it to Si when he offered his 
mother’s silk gown. 

There was a transformation in Polly 
when she made herself ready to ride 
with Si on the wedding-day, but he 
was not quite satisfied with her appear- 
ance, though she had done her best, 
even to the extent of buying a bright 
yellow ribbon for her hair. Alas, poor 
Si ! he could not understand the name- 
less grace, the wondrous charm which 
surrounds some young girls, like the 
perfume of the rose, or the beauty of 
a summer sunrise, felt and understood, 
but not translatable into words. To 
Polly, the wedding, with all its splen- 
dor was an event of her life, recalled 
and talked about to all her friends in 
Go- down, and in every house where 


she sold berries and mint- water. In 
answer to the remark, ‘‘Your cousin 
Richard is a handsome man, and a fine 
scholar, too, I hear,” she invariably said, 
“I dunno as he’s any more to be 
thought on than Si, only Si ain’t got 
college lamin’,” at which the young 
ladies who heard her would say, 
“Why, Polly, you forget Dick’s beau- 
tiful hair!” Polly thought of Si’s eyes 
as compensation for Dick’s curls, but 
she never spoke of them save once to 
Alice, as the reader will recall. She 
seemed to think herself the discoverer 
of their beauty, and held the secret as 
she cherished Aunt Betsey’s stones. 

Richard and Alice sailed for India 
soon after the wedding, going by 
steamer to Liverpool, where they were 
to meet one of Captain Leigh’s vessels 
bound for Calcutta. They were favor- 
ed with the admiration of the young 
and the blessing of the old, and were 
reckoned among the few fortunate peo- 
ple on earth on whom some good fairy 
had bestowed her best gifts. We of- 
ten think thus when we see love, beau- 
ty, and wealth unite to bless a wedded 
pair; but the wise who have read, and 
the old who have observed, know that 
the gifts of Fortune are more evenly 
distributed than superficial men are 
willing to believe. 





CHAPTER IV. 

DISAPPOINTMENT AND SORROW. 


Silas Rogees, senior, was present 
at his son’s wedding. When the cere- 
mony was over, he congratulated the 
wedded pair in a few kindly words 
spoken with gravity. When they left 
for India, and he shook hands for the 
last time with Richard, God bless 
you, my son !” he said ; “I wish I had 
a fortune to give you.” 

“No, no, father,” rejilied his son, 
“ you have done more for me than I 
had a right to ask. We will make 
our own fortune, will we not, Alice ?” 

“Yes, Richard, and come back to 
share it with your father and Silas. 
Look for us in five years with money 
enough to settle down at home; and, 
perhaps, something may happen — who 
knows ? — to bring us back before that 
time.” 

The steamer left from Rew York, 
and Si’s farewell was taken at the little 
depot in Go-down, where Richard and 
Alice stepped from the cars a moment 
to take one last look of the little settle- 
ment, with its rocky pastures, its long 


stretches of stone - wall, its weather- 
worn wood houses, and, what softens 
all this ruggedness with rare beauty, 
its noble elms. 

“ I wish I could get one more glance 
of the great rock and the elm that 
shades my father’s house,” said Rich- 
ard, as he looked in vain from the win- 
dow of the car. “ They are gone, hid- 
den by a curve in the road, and I shall 
see another land and a strange people 
before I look upon those familiar sights 
again. I used to think very little of 
the farm when I was a boy, Alice, and 
wish I had been born in town ; but 
now that I am leaving it for life, I feel 
more pain than I can express.” 

“ I share it with yon, Richard,” said 
Alice. “I fell in love with it years 
ago, when I rode out with my father 
and mother on a day when you and 
Silas were in the field, haying — do you 
remember it ?” 

“ Do I remember it, Alice ? It was 
one of the brightest days of my life. 
We sat under the old apple-tree, and 


56 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


your presence made the whole farm 
beautiful. Look! you can just see the 
tops of the trees in the old orchard, 
where we gathered the early harvest- 
apples. That is the highest land on 
the farm.” 

They little knew as they looked that 
on that very spot Si was standing, to 
catch one last glimpse of the train as 
it wound its way onward to the distant 
city. When the last cloud of its smoke 
had vanished in air, he turned slowly 
homeward. His father was putting 
a new hinge upon the barn - door. 
When he saw Si, he said, 

“ You are younger than I am, Silas, 
and I will leave tlie leak in the roof for 
you to mend.” 

“Yes, father, I will do it to-day. I 
suppose we must give up the new 
barn.” 

The old man laid down his tools, 
and sat down on the threshold of the 
barn-door, and as he did so, a look of 
weariness and pain came like a shadow 
over his face. 

“Yes, Silas, we must not only give 
up building a new barn, but be thank- 
ful if we can keep the old and a house 
over our heads. It was hard to let 
Hichard go of£ without giving him 
money enough to pay his own way to 
India. I do not call myself a proud 
man. Si, neither do I wish to be thought 
hard to my own flesh and blood. Did 
Hichard know about the railroad 
stock ?” 

“No, father; and I am glad he will 
get out of the country without learn- 
ing about it ; neither did he go empty- 
handed. I sold Meg last week for a 
great price — a fancy price,I think — five 
hundred dollars — and, as we always 


called it Richard’s horse, I thought 
him entitled to the money. He will 
find the check drawn in his name when 
he gets to Boston.” 

“I am very glad. Si. I had no idea 
that tlie horse was so valuable, having 
taken no notice of her since she was a 
young colt.” 

He little knew that parting with 
Meg would give poor Si the heartache 
for many a day. 

“I am sorry now, father, that wo 
took the railroad stock, and, hav- 
ing taken it, that we didn’t sell be- 
fore.” 

“ It is no use crying over spilt milk, 
my son. Our money is gone, and I 
am too old to replace it ; and as trou- 
ble never comes alone, I have heard to- 
day of the failure of Carr & Townsend, 
who owed us four thousand dollars for 
ship-timber.” 

As he spoke, the man bowed his 
head, and Si thought he saw tears fall. 
It was a great shock to the young man, 
who had relied upon this money to re- 
place that which he had advanced to 
Richard for the last three years of his 
college course. 

He was now almost penniless him- 
self — all the earnings of his hard life 
swept away at one stroke ! He under- 
stood now the silence and sternness of 
his father for months past. The sus- 
pense had been hard to bear. 

“ Well, father,” said Silas, rallying a 
little, “ the worst has come ; we have 
no more to risk, nothing to lose. If 
we can keep the farm and the house 
over our heads, let us be thankful. We 
have no 'debts, and you and I can live 
on little, while Richard can take care 
of himself now. We must remember 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


57 


his good luck, and be glad he is saved 
the knowledge of our sorrow.” 

‘‘My son, it is of you I am think- 
ing; you have sacrificed everything 
for your brother, and I cannot make 
it good. I had hoped that you would 
marry and make the house bright 
again.” 

“Don’t make ‘ yourself unhappy 
about that, father. I have no inten- 
tion of marrying, and if you will work 
less and take more ease, I will keep 
things going on the farm. Better this 
certainty of poverty than the harrow- 
ing anxiety of the past year.” 

“ True, my son ; and I must acknowl- 
edge that I feel relieved, now that you 
know it all. We parted with some of 
the best land on our farm, and have 
received nothing in return ; we have 
cut our largest timber, and dishonest 
men have defrauded us, not only of 
that, but of two years of hard labor. 
Life looks black to me, and I am will- 
ing to lay it down.” 

The burden which the younger man 
■was trying to bear with courage was 
almost too much for his strength. 
Tlie world had looked dark to him 
also, and there were times when he 
felt that it was easier to give up life, 
than to hold on to the end. “But may- 
be there is work for me yet,” he said 
to himself; “and if there is anything 
worth living for, I will find it out : at 
least, I will stand by father. I can’t 
leave the old home now.” 

There had been times in the last 
year when he dreamed of making a 
home for himself in the Far West, and 
if he had received his due, no doubt 
he might have gone West and bought 
land, made himself a home on some 


broad, fertile prairie, and dotted the 
green domain with cattle and wdieat- 
fields. Now, his way was clear. 
There was no question of his own 
will and pleasure. His father was as 
firmly fixed to the old farm as the 
rocks that had grown gray there more 
than a thousand years ago. The two 
sat there almost in silence. Of what 
use were words ? At last the old man 
took up his tools, and went to work 
upon the barn-door; Silas drew out 
the ladder and climbed to the roof 
to examine the rents which time and 
winds had made. For the rest of the 
day, till the old woman in the kitchen 
called them to supper, nothing was 
heard but the sound of the hammer 
on the roof, or of tools on the barn 
floor ; for now that there could be no 
new barn, the work of repair must be 
thorough. 

No hour of his rather dreary life 
was more pleasant to Si than the last 
of the day — the gloaming, when, as we 
have before said, he took his last look 
at all the animals under his care. That 
night Meg’s stall was empty. Poor 
Si ! The mother who has parted with 
a favorite child, gone perhaps to school 
or to the distant city, and visits his 
empty room, to look upon the bed 
where no sleeping face is found on 
which she can press a good-night kiss, 
can understand Si’s feelings. Meg had 
been raised by him, fed from his hand, 
caressed by him every day of her life. 
In return she gave him a love as 
strong, as expressive as if she were 
endowed with a human soul. 

He had turned, from habit, to her 
stall, and put his hand in his pocket 
for the bit of sugar which he often 


58 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


gave to her, when he recollected that 
his i^et was in another stable and tend- 
ed by a strange groom. He wondered 
if she would miss him — if, though in 
a rich man’s stall, she would not be 
homesick for the old barn and his fa- 
miliar voice. Si had been living all 
day in a state of repressed feeling. 
After catching a last look of the de- 
parting train which had borne his 
brother and his bride away, he had re- 
turned to his work, resolved to live his 
life of patient endurance. The loss of 
which his father had told him made his 
burden heavier; but, for his father’s 
sake, he made no moan — only bowed 
himself to bear the added weight and 
give no sign how much it galled him. 
Now, the absence of Meg was the last 
straw upon the overladen back. He 
came out of the barn and sat down 
upon a large flat rock beneath a ma- 
ple-tree, where Dick and he used to 
bring their bowls of bread -and -milk, 
to eat them together, and where they 
cracked their nuts in boyhood (some 
shells remained there yet), and where 
they sat and wept when their mother 
died. The future looked so gloomy to 
Si, that he almost wdshed his life end- 
ed, and he lying in the graveyard be- 
side his mother. Bose had followed 
him about all this time, but he had not 
noticed him, till he suddenly became 
restless, started away from Si’s feet, 
and pricked up his ears. ‘‘Be quiet, 
Bose !” said Si, laying his hand upon 
the dog’s head. But Bose was not 
inclined to be quiet; he started off 
toward the gate and began to bark. 
Then Si heard the regular trotting of 
a horse, and the next minute Captain 
Leigh’s man came up the lane, riding 


“ Lily.” He stopped when he saw Si- 
las. 

“ I have come, Mr. Rogers, to bring 
the horse which Miss Alice has left for 
you. I have the letter in my jjocket,” 
producing the document after much 
searching. “I am to return by the 
next train, which goes in flve minutes, 
and bring the captain’s saddle with 
me ; so, if you will excuse me, I will 
run and catch it” — jumping off the 
horse as he spoke, seizing the saddle, 
and leaving Si standing, in a state of 
great astonishment, beside the horse. 

There was not light enough to read 
the letter till Si had lighted the candle 
in the lantern which hung in the barn, 
and then, standing beside it as it hung 
on a hook in one of the beams in the 
barn, with the bridle of the liorse in 
one hand, he read as follows ; 

“ My dear Brother Silas, — I can- 
not find it in my heart to sell Lily, 
and, with my father’s approbation, I 
send her as a present to you. Will 
you accept the gift ? She is a beauti- 
ful creature, as you have often said, 
and very affectionate. I hope you. 
will love her for my sake; and I am 
sure she will receive kind treatment 
at your hands, for I know your good- 
ness to all the animals that have the 
good fortune to be under your charge. 
I hope she will live till our return, and 
maybe she will remember me kindl}". 
Do not forget that you are to give me 
a share in your love to Richard. 

“Y’our affectionate sister, 

“Alice Rogers.” 

Silas Rogers was a quiet, reticent 
young man, as we have seen. As Pol- 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


59 


ly had said, the gold of his nature was 
hidden, as that precious metal often 
is, in a rough exterior ; but this letter 
probed the rock like a diamond-point- 
ed drill. Tears, which all the troubles 
of the day had not called forth, now 
fell upon this letter. They washed 
away the gloom that had gathered 
upon his heart, and clarified the inner 
sight. There was no less pain, but it 
was the pain of the skilful surgeon’s 
knife, which is the precursor of rest 
and ease, not the morbid suffering 
which worketh death. 

The horse, which had till now stood 
quiet, whinnied, as if wisliing to be 
noticed, and Bose kept walking round 
her, occasionally putting his paws 
upon Silas’s frock, and asking him to 
explain matters. “All right, Bose; all 
right.” 

Then Si removed the bridle from 
Lily, and led her into Meg’s stall, pat- 
ting her gently upon the neck, and giv- 
ing her the bit of sugar which had 
been destined for Meg. Lily turned 
and rubbed her head against his shoul- 
der, just as Meg used to do, and seem- 
ed to know shgar. Could it be that 
she had been accustomed to such a 
titbit from Alice? It would seem so, 
from her manner. 

There is always in the darkest sky 
one spot where the clouds are not 
quite so dense, where sunlight or 
moonlight struggles to let us know 
that there is light behind the cloud. 
It was thus with Si to-night. 

Silas hung his lantern up in the 
stall, and stood by the horse for some 
minutes. She was a little smaller than 
Meg, about fourteen hands high, with a 
rich brown, glossy coat. The ears were 


thin and delicate, quick to move and 
sensitive to sounds as those of a hare. 
Her mane “floated full and fair over 
her right shoulder,” and her tail arch- 
ed itself and fell in one silky stream, 
like a miniature copy of Minnehaha. 
Her legs were straight and smooth, 
her feet small, compact, and rather 
high; and as she turned her slender 
neck to look at Silas, her large brown 
eyes, set wide apart, wore a wondering, 
questioning look. She knew she had 
changed masters and was in another 
home. If Richard were there, his fa- 
miliar voice would have satisfied her 
that all was right, but she was almost 
a stranger to Si. His touch and words, 
however, seemed to satisfy her, and 
the ears that moved, as delicate flowers 
are moved upon their stalks by the 
passing breeze, became still, and she 
stood quiet while his hand rested on 
her shoulder. Upon her forehead was 
what a dealer in horses would call a 
“ blaze,” but which Alice said was like 
a white lily wrought on brown satin, 
and this had given her the name. It 
will be remembered that Meg was not 
very fond of Bose; but Lily looked 
kindly down on the great dog, and 
touched her nose to his fur, which 
pleased the good fellow so much that 
he ran from Lily to his master and 
back again, wagging his tail vigorous- 
ly, and giving a welcome which the 
horse, no doubt, understood. 

Lily was a beautiful creature, but 
she was not Meg; she had many fine 
points about her, but Meg was almost 
perfect — the best horse that had ever 
been raised on that farm or in the vi- 
cinity. Si had been very proud of her 
beauty, and only for Richard’s sake 


60 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


could he have parted with her. But 
there was consolation in the thought 
that she had been the means of saving 
them the mortification of sending his 
brother empty-handed from the farm, 
and had gratified his father, who knew 
little of the value of Meg. Lily was 
more than a beautiful horse to Silas. 
She was a sister’s gift — a treasure, not 
to be valued for how much she would 
bring in hard cash in market, but a 
token of affection — a lily to be cherish- 
ed and cared for, for the giver’s sake. 

Si read two hours, as usual, in “ Com- 
stock’s Philosophy;” but he dreamed 
about two horses, and awoke in the 
morning with a dim sense of some 
pleasant incident that had brightened 
his life. He rubbed his eyes, and won- 
dered if it were a reality or only a 
dream that Alice had given Lily to 
him. Then he saw the letter on his 
table, which he re-read, and was no 
longer in doubt. 

He hurried to the stable as soon as 
he had dressed himself, and there found 
Lily, with Bose at her side. The dog 
was showing his delight at meeting 
with a horse who appreciated the mer- 
its of the canine family, and, no doubt, 
complaining of Meg’s lack of taste in 
this matter.,^ From this time horsp 
and dog became great friends, Lily 
never failing to look for him when the 
stable door was opened in the morn- 
ing, and rubbing her nose upon his 
brown -and -white coat when he came 
to lie down at her feet. 

Life upon the farm was monotonous 
at best; but when the boys were young, 
they were happy, as boys can hardly 
fail to be, raised where birds, squirrels, 
horses, and cows live. Given plenty 


to eat and time to sleep, and a country 
boy will glean a large amount of pleas- 
ure, albeit he wears old clothes, ragged 
hats, and has no shoemaker. 

“Only think!” said Dick, one day, 
to his mother, when he was about six 
years old; “see there! my feet are just 
as good, and tougher, than they were 
in the spring, and Ben Baker has worn 
out two pairs of shoes in that time. 
Why don’t my feet -wear out, moth- 
er?” 

“Who’d wear them things?” said a 
barefooted girl to her friend, who was 
also without stockings, as they passed 
a store where striped stockings were 
hung out for sale. 

“ Catch me wearing them snaky 
things !” replied the other. Aild they 
passed, patting the pavement with their 
bare feet in happy freedom. 

That golden age was over for Silas, 
and the burden of life was upon him, 
wdth little of its sunshine to cheer his 
way. Had his mother lived, Silas 
would have asked no greater happi- 
ness than the enjoyment of her socie- 
ty. She was more refined in her nat- 
ure than the women ambng wLom her 
lot was cast ; it was from her the sons 
had acquired the habit of speaking 
with propriety and pronouncing their 
words differently from others around 
them — Cousin Polly, for instance, who 
was a second edition of Aunt Betsey. 

“ I say. Si, ’tain’t no use talkin’, she’s 
a beauty, and my Dobbin is like a cow 
to her,” said Polly, when she saw Lily 
in the stable. “ You’re kinder proud of 
your new sister, ain’t you. Si ? I don’t 
much wonder that you can’t bring your 
mind to marry any gal about here. 
Sally Poor is a pinin’ for you, and has 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


G1 


got a new gown jest the color of Alice’s 
merino habit — dark-blue, you know — 
and she doss up her hair in papers, 
and pinches ’em with hot tongs to 
make curls, and ties red ribbons round 
Iier head, and bright yaller ribbon on 
her bunnit ; and. Si ” — here Polly whis- 
pered — she’s got five hundred dollars 
in the savings-bank, and she’ll have 
the forty-acre farm, half raeader-land, 
when her grandfather dies. You’d 
better strike while the iron is hot. Si. 
Five hundred dollars and a farm don’t 
go beggin’ every day ; and I know all 
about the railroad stock — I do. Si, and 
I am sorry. Ye see, there ain’t much 
goin’ on at the port but what I know 
about it. Warn’t I wise to take the 
paster for my share ?” 

don’t think it is worth much, 
Polly, as I told you at the time. It 
would have been better to have put 
the money in the savings-bank, though 
I am much obliged to you. I could 
sell you the land more readily than I 
could raise the money.” 

I hankered arter the land, you see. 
It runs in our family to want land. 
'You know Aunt Betsey would never 
sell a foot.” 

“ If it was good, rich bottom land, I 
should like it, Polly ; but I get tired 
clearing my farm of stones.” 

‘‘You can’t do that, Si ; it is no use. 
For every stun you carry away, there’s 
ten comes up out of the ground to see 
where it is gone. Did you ever think. 
Si, how curous it must be way down 
where the big rocks are, ’cause, I sup- 
pose, these great flat rocks run down 
as deep as roots of great trees — don’t 
they, Si?” 

“Yes; and it may be that deep 


down the rocks are soft — melted-like; 
it is so hot down there.” 

“Hot, Si?” 

“Yes; and ages and ages ago it 
was hot enough for gold, and silver, 
and lead to melt and to run amidst the 
rocks in veins, like as they are some- 
times found.” 

Polly’s sharp black eyes were fixed 
upon Silas as he spoke, and she came 
nearer to him, and asked, 

“ Is it hot now ? Do they melt and 
run now. Si ?” 

“ The crust of the earth has been 
cooling for ages, Polly ; but it is hot 
still, if you dig down deep enough. 
You have read about volcanoes, haven’t 
you, Polly, throwing up melted stones 
and stuff like hot coal ?” 

“No, I hain’t read nothin’. Aunt 
Betsey said book -lamin’ warn’t good 
for folks.” 

“It has done Richard good^” said 
Si. 

“ Maybe, and maybe not : if he should 
be drownded it wouldn’t do him good : 
but. Si, I’d like to know more about 
them rocks.” 

“ I must read up, for your benefit, 
Polly.” 

All this time Polly was holding a 
stray rooster, which had found its way 
from her premises to Si’s barn -yard, 
where corn was abundant, and, as he 
was becoming impatient under his con- 
finement (pressed to her side, beneath 
her arm), she started for home ; but, 
looking back as Si was leading Lily to 
the water-trough, said, 

“ It will be kind of lonesome now 
for you. Si ; hadn’t you better hitch on 
to Polly ? You two will make a spry 
team ; and then the five hundred dollars 


62 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


and the meader-land thrown into the 
bargain free, as you may say.” 

By this time Polly was climbing the 
fence as the shortest way home, and 
the rooster, taking advantage of the 
situation, escaped from her grasp and 
flew over into the street, whither he 
was followed by his mistress, whom he 
defied by a loud, belligerent crow. 

Si’s answer, if he gave any, was lost; 
but he stood a moment with his hand 
upon Lily, as she drank from the trough, 
looking away from Polly, away from 
the farm,from all his surroundings: and 
had Alice seen those great blue eyes 
then, she would have thought them 
wondrously beautiful. Si had his se- 
cret, and he could guard it : it would 
go to his grave with him. The reverie 
was short, for he had no time for 
day-dreaming; and so taking his hand 
from Lily’s neck, he led her back to 
the stall, and went , into the field 
where his father was at work at the 
fall ploughing. He took the plough 
from his hands, and asked the elder 
man if he could go to Oldport with a 
load of winter apples : this was one of 
the lighter tasks of the farm, and it 
was now Si’s daily study to lessen his 
father’s labor. 

It was a bright, cool day, one of 
those days when a true farmer loves 
his work, and, knowing that winter is 
at hand, when out-door labor must, in 
a great measure, cease. Silas Rogers, 


junior, has altered somewhat since we 
introduced him to the reader as a shy, 
light-haired, freckled boy. The hair is 
straight still, for the mother’s curls fell 
■to Richard, but it has grown many 
shades darker, the freckles have disap- 
peared, and the face is fair, though 
browned by sun and wind. He Avas 
a puny, delicate child, a great contrast 
to the sturdy, robust little Dick, who 
used to care for Si, and make believe 
that he Avas older, because he Avas big- 
ger. But now Si was tall and stout, 
and had not knoAvn an ill day for ten 
years. His chest Avas broad and his 
form erect, for hard Avork had failed 
to round his shoulders as it too often 
does those of farmers’ boys. His face 
had lost the someAvhat dull expression 
of his boyhood; and though Avhen in 
repose it had little beauty, the instant 
that the eyes brightened Avith some 
pleasant thought, or at the face of a 
friend, he Avas transformed and became 
a neAv man. 

Some thought lay cradled in his 
heart to-day, over Avhich he smiled, as 
a mother upon her sleeping babe ; and 
though his llsLWy Buck ! and Gee, 
Bright ! might be heard in the field, 
and though the furroAvs Avere straight 
as military parallels, yet his heart Avas 
not there : the hands Avrought from 
habit, but in his sight floated a vision 
as pure and fair as the Avhite cloud in 
the eastern horizon. 



CHAPTER V. 

DEFEATED AMBITION. 


Silas Rogers, junior, was nailing 
boards here and there on the old barn, 
looking over the tumble-down struct- 
ure with a sad heart, when Polly made 
her appearance. 

‘‘Wall, they’re gone. Si; gone to 
Indy to make a name and a fortin. I 
suppose Dick expects to come home 
as rich a man as Squire Leigh, and live 
in a big house, and be a ‘ nadob that’s 
what they call it, I believe.” 

“Kabob, perhaps you mean, Polly. 
I think Dick will be a successful man, 
wherever he goes, Polly.” 

“Maybe; it ain’t sartin, arter all. 
Aunt Betsey used to say a varse — out 
of the spellin’ - book, I guess — ‘The 
race is not to the strong, nor the bat- 
tle to the swift ;’ and father had a say- 
ing that a ‘ tortoise beats the hare.’ ” 

“Nevertheless, I think Dick will 
make his mark in the world, Polly. 
Didn’t he look splendid at the wed- 
ding?” 

“I hain’t no notion of harnsome 


men. Si. Beauty is a fortin to a wom- 
an, but ain’t no account in a man.” 

“Dick has something besides beau- 
ty — a good education, and energy to 
use it.” 

“I have told you a hundred times. 
Si, that lamin’ did as much harm as 
good, and, as far I have obsarvq^, col-, 
leges turn out two kinds of men : them, 
as is unfortenit, and them as is children 
of Satan.” 

“ I hope, Polly, that Dick will come 
into neither of those classes,” said 
Silas. 

“ There is exceptions to all gineral 
rules,” replied Polly, very dryly. 

“I hope the knowledge that I have 
gained from books will be of use to 
you and to me, Polly.” 

“ I dunno how that can be. Si.” 

Silas did not tell her how closely 
he had followed his brother in all 
the English studies of the curriculum 
at collesre, knew all thfe classmates 
by name and their peculiarities, had 


64 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


laughed at their jokes and their 
“scrapes,” as repeated by Richard, 
knew all the oddities of the profes- 
sors, and was familiar with halls, libra- 
ry, and rooms. He had preserved his 
brother’s books, having asked him not 
to sell them, as was the custom among 
the students; and now they were ar- 
ranged in his own room in the order 
in which they had been used. The 
English books were re-read by Silas in 
the winter leisure on the farm. His 
slender stock of Latin, gained at Dum- 
mer, was kept good by an occasional 
reference, but the text-books in the 
common studies were thoroughly read. 
No one, not even the father, was aware 
of Si’s studies. He was such a quiet, 
reticent fellow that no one suspected 
that his knowledge extended beyond 
the farm. Here he was at home, and 
would have made improvements and 
added machinery and modern modes 
of farming had his purse been fuller 
or his father less wedded to old no- 
tions. His love for horses was great, 
and his father often grumbled at the 
expense which Si incurred in raising 
horses, but after the sale of Meg he 
never interfered. 

Si never raised another horse that 
he liked as well as Meg; but his horses 
were the best to be met with for many 
miles in any direction from the farm ; 
and had the farmers at that time un- 
derstood the value of a horse of fine 
shape and vigor as they now do. Si 
would have retrieved their lost fort- 
une. This love of horses kept life in 
the poor fellow’s heart on that lonely 
spot, and supplied, in a measure (do 
not laugh at him, dear reader), the 
want of that love from our fellow- 


creatures ' which we all crave. The 
love of an animal is not to be despised. 
A dog has died of a broken heart on 
his master’s grave ; a horse has shown 
a tenacity of affection and a loving 
memory of his owner after years of 
separation. Silas Rogers, the father, 
was one of those men, too common in 
New England fifty years ago, when it 
was thought a mark 'of weakness to 
pet a child or speak loving words to a 
boy. His children never met with un- 
kindness at his hand, and never heard 
words of tenderness from his lips ; and 
his wife, with a warm, loving heart 
trusted in him, loved him, and had 
faith that he gave her love in return ; 
but her life would have been all the 
brighter had he been more demonstra- 
tive. She lavished her affection on her 
children. After the first terrible out- 
burst of grief at her death was over, 
Silas, the son, folded her memory in 
his heart, and from henceforth became 
reserved and silent. Her grave in the 
old deserted graveyard was enclosed 
and decked with soft turf and roses, 
and was the brightest spot on the 
bleak, rocky hill-side, but never a word 
was' spoken of it in the household. 
Once, in the fall, after Richard’s de- 
parture, Si found his father mending 
the paling around the white stone 
which some stray animal had broken 
down; and, not long after this inci- 
dent, he saw his mother’s Bible lying 
on the round table at his father’s bed- 
side. The reserved, surly manner of 
his father disappeared after he had 
relieved his mind by telling Si of the 
failure of the firm who were so large- 
ly indebted to them, and of the loss of 
his railroad investments. He met a 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


65 


member of the firm one day, as he was 
selling vegetables in town, a year or 
more after the failure, and stopping 
the ship-builder, as he sat in his chaise, 
driving a horse that Si had said was 
worth a small fortune, asked him if 
he could refund a small portion of his 
debt, adding, “ You have begun busi- 
ness again, Mr. T., and are making 
money. I am a poor man, made so, in 
a measure, by your failure.” 

“ My debts have been settled accord- 
ing to law, Mr. Rogers. I declared 
myself bankrupt, and you fared the 
same as my other creditors. You have 
no hold upon me. Good-morning, sir.” 
lie touched his spirited horse with the 
whip, and was borne rapidly away and 
out of sight before Mr. Rogers could 
gather up the reins and bid his own 
horse move forward. 

This world is all a mystery and a 
muddle to me,” he said. Here am 
I, who have worked hard and dealt just- 
ly with all, left destitute in my old age, 
while men who are grasping and dis- 
honest are rich and happy. I see noth- 
ing to live for, and no happiness but — 
in the grave,” he was about to add, 
when the form of his wife came to his 
mind’s eye, and he hesitated, thought 
for a moment, and added, “ If we meet 
in the beyond — well, well, perhaps what 
she said will come — ‘ Silas, I shall wait 
for you there.’ ” 

Then this cold, silent man wished 
that his wife could know how much 
he had thought of her since his trou- 
bles had come upon him. She would 
have borne half the burden, and her 
smile and her patience would have 
made a better man of him. A change 
came over him from this time. He 
5 


cared less for work, neglected the farm, 
ceased to plan for the future, left ev- 
erything to Si, and would sit on the 
bench by the sunny side of the barn 
for hours on those autumn days. His 
strength failed him as winter came on, 
but he said almost daily to his son, 
‘‘ No letter from Dick yet ?” 

At last letters came, giving a full ac- 
count of the voyage, and of their first 
impressions of India. They had been 
there but a few hours, but long enough 
for Dick to write, “I am well and hap- 
py, and ready to enter upon my work.” 
The following postscript was in Alice’s 
handwriting : 

“Dear Brother Si, — I have enjoy- 
ed the voyage. You know I am the de- 
scendant of sailors, born to the sea, and 
love it well. I shall send my journal 
to you, for Richard says you will like 
to read it. You must mention Lily 
when you write. Do you sometimes 
give her a lump of sugar ? She likes 
it as much as a child. It gives me 
pleasure to think of her, living upon 
the farm where my husband lived when 
a boy, and where animals are so kindly 
treated. Some people think it is silly 
to love a good horse, and to value its 
affection ; but. Brother Si, I believe 
horses are capable of being educated 
to do wonderful things, and that our 
kindness and affection to them meets 
its full reward. I am sorry that Lily 
cannot read and write, for then we 
should correspond. Please just whis- 
per this in her ear, and see what she 
will do : ‘ Lily, my darling, shall we 
take a canter to Chain Bridge to- 
day?’ That was my usual morning 
ride, and she understands it.” 


66 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


Si folded this letter, and laid it among 
the choicest of his few treasures, close 
to the miniature of his mother. He 
tried the experiment of whispering 
into Lily’s ear, taking care that she 
should not see him. At the words 
the horse pricked up her ears, and tried 
to lay her head, alas ! upon a form 
which was not by her side. When no 
Alice appeared, and the jDOor animal, 
‘‘ with ear attentive bent ” and eyes 
with patient waiting in their gaze, fail- 
ed to find her mistress, her head droop- 
ed, and there was such an unmistakable 
air of disappointment about her that 
Si never repeated the experiment. Af- 
ter the reception of this letter Mr. 
Rogers became more sad and abstract- 
ed; he sat by the fireside most of the 
day, rousing himself occasionally to 
water the cattle or split the firewood, 
but asking no questions, and giving 
brief replies to any that were put to 
him. 

He had been waiting to know that 
Richard was safe in India, and was now 
willing to let this life slip from him. 
Months ago, when the fear of loss came 
upon him, he had rallied his forces, 
and hoped, by his former industry and 
economy, to make another small fort- 
une. But he had given it all up now. 
“The battle was to the swift and the 
race to the strong,” and old-fashioned 
honesty and industry met with no re- 
ward. He was morbid, no doubt, and 
old age was creeping on to make him 
timid, and the craftiness of his fellow- 
men was too much for him to fight 
against. 

He was no hero, our poor Mr. Rog- 
ers, but he was a man of sturdy hon- 
esty, and wished to die as he had lived 


— free from debt. One winter’s day, 
when Si was threshing in the barn, 
the old man opened the old-fashioned 
desk which stood in his sleeping-room, 
and which had been owned by his fa- 
ther and grandfather before him, and 
looked over all his papers and ac- 
counts. Then tying them in bundles 
and labelling them, he wrote the follow- 
ing note to his son : 

“My Son Silas, — You will find 
with this note the deed of my farm, 
known as Rocky Hill Farm. It is free 
from all encumbrance, but the land is 
not of great value. It is yours by 
right for the years of hard labor you 
have spent upon it; I make it yours 
legally, and only wish that I could 
leave you a larger fortune. Richard 
has an education, and an opportunity 
to make a^fortune. I leave him only 
my blessing.” 

The next morning the old man did 
not come to breakfast. Silas could 
not recall in his lifetime such an omis- 
sion before. He was alarmed, but on 
going to his bedside found him awake, 
suffering no pain, but caring for noth- 
ing to eat, and, as he expressed it, 
“Haven’t got spunk enough to dress 
myself. Si ; might as well lie here as 
be sittin’ round doin’ nothin’.” The 
doctor could find no disease for his 
drugs to fight — nothing but a general 
failure of body and mind, as he ex- 
pressed it. He asked them to let him 
lie there quietly ; and though Silas, his 
son, was near him all the time and 
ministered to his wants, he was allow- 
ed to have his own way, and there he 
died, making no sign, but folded his 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


67 


hands, and gave np the life which had 
become a burden. 

When Polly "went to town some 
weeks afterward, and was asked by one 
of her customers, to whom she was sell- 
ing distilled spearmint, ‘‘What w^as 
the matter with your cousin Silas?” 
her reply was, “Well, marm, nater 
kind o’ gin out, like our elm-tree that 
fell t’other day: ye see there weren’t 
sap enough to keep it alive.” But 
when on the same day, as she was deliv- 
ering some eggs at the Townsend man- 
sion, and they asked a similar question, 
her quick reply was, “I consate that he 
took too much of Townsend’s Bitters.” 

Si, or, as we must now call him, Silas 
Bogers, lived a lonely life after the 
death of his father. 

“ I lost him,” he said to Polly, “just 
as I was beginning to love him as I 
never had loved him before in all my 
boyhood.” 

“I was afeard what would happen. 
Si, when your father stopped being 
grum and cross, and didn’t work no 
more, arly and late. ’Twant nateral for 
him to be so easy and gentle in his 
ways. I kinder thought your marm 
was callin’ him. I dreamed about her 
the very night afore your father died, 
and I guess now she appeared to him. 
Aunt Betsey used to say that if you 
made a mistake in the days of the 
week, and called Friday Saturday, it 
was a sign that there would be a death 
in the family. Well, Si, I harnessed 
Dobbin, and got as far as the ‘ great 
rock’ on Friday morning, on the way 
to the mill arter my grist that was to 
be ready for me Saturday morning. 
I knew then somethin’ was goin’ to 
happen.” 


After this event the neighbors all 
wondered why Silas Rogers did not 
take a wife. Patty Baker, a forlorn 
old maid of fifty, cross-eyed, and cross- 
grained in temper, too, could not make 
home pleasant to a young man; but 
Patty made good butter and cheese — 
butter that w^as gilt-edged in the mar- 
ket, and sage-cheese that was in great 
demand in Oldport. Moreover, Patty 
was frugal and neat, dried the apples, 
looked after the poultry, nursed the 
early lambs, and understood farming 
almost as well as Silas himself. 

She never found fault with Silas, 
and he did not interfere with her. 
When he risked money in thorough- 
bred cattle, or tried new crops and 
high manuring, in opposition to his 
father’s old notions, Patty always up- 
held him before the gossiping neigh- 
bors, and encouraged him at home. 
With such an assistant, aided by his 
own shrewdness, the farm began to 
yield more income, and was noted in 
the region for its fine cattle and good 
horses. 

The young man, meanwhile, was pur- 
suing his studies in the quiet of his 
own room. One day Polly came to 
him as he was about riding to town, 
mounted on Lily, and said : 

“ Si, can you tell me any more about 
them melted rocks, and the gold and 
silver in ’em? I’d rather hear about 
them than any of them love-stories 
that Sally Poor reads and talks about.” 

“Well, Polly, I think I can tell you 
something about this old earth of ours 
that is as good as a love-story. Come 
over the next rainy day, and we will 
talk about it.” 

This conversation reminded Silas of 


68 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


a book which he had resolved to buy, 
and lie remembered to bring it home 
wdth him that day. It was ‘‘Dana’s 
Geology and as Silas was one of 
those patient, plodding scholars that 
do their work thoroughly, he made 
himself complete master of the book. 
No novel could have such a charm for 
him as the learning about those grand 
aeons, when the plastic earth was form- 
ing itself for the abode of man, when 
the mastodon and animals of giant 
size stalked amidst the immense ferns 
and Lepidoderidra that now, in anoth- 
er form, give light and heat to our 
homes. 

This book opened the eyes of the 
young man to the world around him. 
There was something besides grass 
for cattle, and corn and potatoes for 
man, to be found upon it. The rocks 
that had been only a nuisance before 
now suddenly acquired an interest in 
liis eyes, and he learned to take ham- 
mer and bag when he rambled over 
liivS rocky pastures. 

The reader will understand why 
Polly liked to hear her cousin talk 
upon this subject ; but, for reasons of 
her own, she never told him of Aunt 
Betsey’s prophecy or of her own 
dreams. Once, years before, she had 
spoken of Shawny and her aunt’s old 
spoons, and the bullets of her great- 
uncle, but the boys had made so much 
fun of her for saying, “ Maybe our fort- 
un’ is in the rocks,” that she kept si- 
lence afterward. 

Pichard had added, “When a pro- 
fessor of geology has said that there is 
nothing valuable beneath the surface, it 
is time to lose faith in dreams, Polly.” 

But Polly believed, with Aunt Bet- 


sey, that “ book laming wasn’t to be 
depended upon;” and though wonder- 
fully interested in what Silas told her, 
she received it with many grains of 
allowance. Studying the rocks them- 
selves she did believe in, and had made 
a collection of minerals of more value 
than she dreamed, though as yet those 
which a scientist might consider 
worthless she looked upon as most 
precious. She kept these treasures 
hidden in an old chest, rather ashamed 
of them, and unwilling to talk about 
the matter save with Silas. He in 
the mean time was getting so inter- 
ested in this study, that much of his 
spare time was devoted to it, and it 
became a panacea for loneliness. His 
farm -work was not neglected, for he 
loved his work, and often said to him- 
self, “ Though I shall never be rich like 
Richard, yet I can see my way to a 
competence here on this rocky soil.” 

For a year or more letters came 
from Richard and Alice, cheery, bright 
letters, full of hoi^e ; then a long inter- 
val when none arrived, and Captain 
Leigh was impatient and anxious. At 
last Richai'd announced the birth of 
a son, and Alice, with her own hand, 
added one line to her mother — “I am 
well, and the happiest woman in India.” 

“All this is good news as far as it 
goes,” said Ca]5tain Leigh, “ but not all 
that I wish to hear. My last ship was 
detained beyond her sailing time ; and 
trade is dull, and matters look squally 
in the East. I am getting the blues, 
Silas.” 

“My brother will do his best, cap- 
tain.” 

“ That he will, and has worked like 
a Trojan since he went out; but I 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


69 


know now what killed my own son, 
and I must warn Richard. The truth 
is, that our India trade is diminishing ; 
what with steamers, telegraph and rail- 
roads, and political changes also, the 
good old days when our ships had a 
monopoly of trade in Calcutta are 
passing away. Richard found things 
in a bad state, and has been trying to 
retrieve them ; but it looks dark ; I fear 
I must go out myself.” This was 
strenuously opposed by his friends, 
and he delayed for a year longer ; and 
then, with his wife, took passage in a 
steamer to England, and made a quick 
voyage from there to India. His worst 
fears were confirmed. He found Rich- 
ard worn down with hard work in that 
climate, where most New Englanders 
find life without labor almost unen- 
durable. Alice, on the other hand, 
had thriven in health amidst the trying 
heats ; and her child, over a year old 
at the time of Captain Leigh’s visit, 
was as sturdy a little fellow as could 
be found on the hills of his father’s 
native land. 

The buoyant, energetic Richard had 
become a grave, sad man. Two years 
had wrought a great change in him. 

He went out expecting to make a 
fortune in five years. One half of 
that time had passed, during which he 
had worked beyond his strength, only 
to see the expected fortune continual- 
ly eluding his grasp. Captain Leigh 
brought his experience and judgment 
to the work, but to little purpose. “ I 
tell you what it is, Richard,” he said 
one day, “your life is valuable, and 
must not be sacrificed. Go home at 
once and recruit ; I will remain here, 
but you must come back to me. If 


you and I together can’t bring matters 
right, we will give up the ship. Go 
home and try your native air. Silas 
will be glad to see you on the old farm 
in summer, and you may use my house 
for a home whenever you prefer town 
to country.” 

It seemed the only plan to save his 
life, and he consented. Three years 
from the time Silas had watched the 
smoke of the departing train from the 
orchard, he stood with his double wag- 
on awaiting their return, when a tall, 
thin, dark man, with a slow step and 
languid air, came from the train and 
held out his hand to him. Silas did 
not recognize his brother. 

“Si, don’t you know me?” In an 
instant the eyes of Silas filled with 
tears, and a choking sensation in his 
throat almost prevented a reply, but 
he rallied. 

“You have been sick, old fellow, 
haven’t you? Never mind, you will 
grow strong again on the rocks.” 

“Here, Brother Silas, come and be 
introduced to your nephew, Richard 
Leigh Rogers ; isn’t he a noble-looking 
fellow?” said Alice, taking her boy 
from the arms of its nurse and hold- 
ing him toward Silas. 

Alice, too, had changed, but only for 
the better: her eyes were as bright 
and her voice as sweet, but the girlish 
beauty now wore a matronly grace 
that only made her more lovely. Silas 
took the boy in his arms for an in- 
stant, when the little fellow put his 
hand upon his face and lisped out, 
“Oo Untie Si?” at which his mother 
was delighted. “ There, now. Brother 
Silas, isn’t he a wonderful child ? He 
knew you at once. I suppose that we 


70 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


have talked about you so much that 
he knew just how you looked — and 
yet you have altered. You are taller 
and larger, Brother Silas. You will 
weigh more than Richard,” and she 
turned to her husband with a look in 
which love and sadness commingled. 

“We will have him looking like his 
old self again very soon,” said his 
brother, while the party seated them- 
selves in the spacious wagon, and Si- 
las turned his two bays (a span to be 
proud of, as Richard said) toward 
home. 

“Isn’t this a good place for little 
Leigh !” said Alice, as she seated her- 
self at the window of a small but neat- 
ly furnished room, and looked out 
upon the yard, still bright with the 
shrubs and flowers which Silas had 
planted. 

“And for his father, too,” said Rich- 
ard, as he threw himself upon the 
lounge, exhausted with the journey. 
“ I long for rest. Si, and I think I shall 
find it in the old home.” 

“Yes,” said Silas, “ with plenty of 
milk and horseback riding over the 
hills, we’ll bring you round.” 

“ I had hoped to come to you a 
strong man, with a fortune. Si ; but 
here I am, almost a wreck, with only a 
small sum saved from my salary. Ay, 
Si, life don’t look as bright as when I 
said good-bye three years ago. A fort- 
une does not come by whistling for it.” 

“Never mind the fortune, Dick ; the 
old farm will give us rations ; and if — 
if — ” He looked at Alice: he had 
never yet called her by her first name. 
Their eyes met. Hers danced with 
pleasure ; his fell, and a blush spread 
over his face. 


“ You must call me Alice now,” said 
she. “I remember that you used al- 
ways to say, ‘ Miss Leigh but it is 
simple Alice now, nothing else.” 

“ I was going to say,” he said, “that 
if you and little Leigh can be content- 
ed here, it would be better for my 
brother to remain hefe than to go into 
town.” 

“Untie Si! Untie Si!” said little 
Leigh, holding out his arms to be 
taken. 

“You have your answer,” said Alice. 
“ The little fellow wishes to stay ; and 
where Dick and Leigh are, there my 
heart is; so we will trespass upon 
your hospitality till my husband grows 
strong.” 

After dinner, Silas, with the little 
boy in his arms, led the way to the 
stable where Lily stood. He wished 
to test the memory of the horse. 
Handing Alice a lump of sugar, he 
bade her go and stand where Lily 
could see her, lay her hand upon her 
shoulder, and ask her the old familiar 
question. Alice did so, and, stroking 
her mane, used the old endearing epi- 
thets — “ Lady - bird,” “ My Beauty,” 
and so forth. The ears of the animal 
turned in the direction of the voice, 
then the head was raised, and the whole 
body quivered an instant — “As if,” 
Alice said, for her hand was on its 
shoulder, “as if a thrill of joy. ran 
through her:” then she laid her head 
upon Alice, and gave a low whinny, 
that was just as much a welcome home 
as the words of Silas had been at the 
depot. Alice shed tears. “I can’t 
help it, Silas ! I can’t help it ! and you, 
who love horses so well, will not laugh 
at me.” 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


71 


But Silas was not there. He had 
gone out, and was showing six wonder- 
ful little pigs to his nephew. He had 
seen the recognition, and he knew the 
meaning of that whinny better than 
Alice herself. ‘‘ I wonder if Meg 
would remember me,” he said to him- 
self, and a pang of regret entered his 
heart that she had been taken far 
away to a Southern city. 

To the disappointment of his friends, 
Richard Rogers did not rally from his 
debilitated state. He tried riding, but 
it wearied him ; and drinking milk, but 
could not bring back his boyish love 
of it. 

He returned the calls of his old 
friends, and now and then a flash of 
his former brightness would kindle in 
his face, and for an hour or two he 
seemed like himself; but he soon re- 
lapsed into his usual languid condi- 
tion. 

Dr. Hudson watched him closely. 
“Had he been successful in business, 
Silas, I should have hope for him,” the 
doctor said; “but mental depression 
is added to great lassitude of body. 
If I get him through the winter, then 
you may take courage ; but to do this 
he must be passive in my hands.” 

Unfortunately, he was unwilling to 
be guided by his physician, and de- 
veloped a recklessness as to his own 
health which was painful to his friends, 
and this degenerated into a nervous ir- 
ritability that required all the patience 
of Alice to manage. “It is the dis- 
ease, not his own dear self,” she would 
say to Silas, when Richard walked the 
room, repining at his wife, and restless 
as a caged lion that longs for the free- 
dom of the forest. 


Thus the months passed, and he 
made no progress toward health. At 
last letters came from India. Richard 
had looked forward to these with 
much anxiety. They brought no good 
tidings, but one from Captain Leigh 
ended thus : 

“It is hard, my son, and I have 
worked like a sea-captain in a fearful 
storm to save the ship. I luffed and 
I reefed, but I am sailing now under 
bare poles, and see the rocks ahead. 
The old Arm of Leigh & Co., so long 
known in three continents, will go 
down. I mean to give up everything 
but honor. I will leave an honest rec- 
ord, come what will to ourselves.” 

From this time Richard lost hope 
for himself. It was sad to see this 
young man, only three years before so 
stalwart and brave, and with health so 
vigorous and strong, succumb to mis- 
fortune. It is not an isolated case. 
Hundreds of others have been thus 
subdued by an Indian climate, and 
Richard was at that age when disap- 
pointment is most keenly felt. It was 
a sad winter at the farm, and yet no 
one could thus speak of it when they 
saw the bright face of Alice, always 
patient and sweet-tempered, finding ex- 
cuses for Richard’s harsh words, and 
hoping for the best in the darkest 
hours. Little Leigh was a robust, 
restless child, like his father at that 
age, and was often troublesome with 
his noisy play. “ Oh, Alice, can’t you 
keep that child still? His noise makes 
me frantic !” Then the little one would 
run out and find Uncle Si, and, warmly 
wrapped up, make the circuit of the 
farm-yard. 

In this way he learned to love the 


V2 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


animals, and found pleasure in feeding 
them and watching all their ways. 
When mid-winter came, Richard was 
a confirmed invalid, and Alice devoted 
herself to caring for him. She read 
many hours a day aloud, played chess 
till her head ached, and studied by va- 
rious ways to please the fastidious pal- 
ate of an invalid. Silas found emifioy- 
ment for every hour, and no leisure for 
books. He was patient with his poor 
brother, and left nothing undone for 
his comfort. 

“ Oh, Silas, what should I do with- 
out you ?” said Alice, one day when he 
came in from his work, and, taking her 
place at Richard’s side, read to him 
till he fell asleep. cannot express 
all that I feel, but I am very grateful 
to you.” 

He turned and looked at her pale 
face and wearied look, with such sym- 
pathy in those large blue eyes of his, 
that Alice was touched, and rising, 
laid her hand on his shoulder, and 
said, 

‘‘ May we stay with you through the 
winter? You know the doctor has 
proposed our moving to town.” 

Silas rose, as if he would shake off 
the little hand that rested so lightly 
upon him, and turned his face away 
toward the window before he an- 
swered. 

“I think Richard is better here. 
He needs us both. I hear Leigh in 
the garden ; I will go to him.” 

Alice sat down by her sleeping hus- 
band, and mused a moment. 

“Well, my brother Si is peculiar. 
He is as guileless as a child, and lets 
Leigh make a horse of him, and pull 
his hair, and sit on his shoulder, but 


is as grave and dignified in my pres- 
ence as if he were My Lord High Ad- 
miral. I did but touch his shoulder, 
and he moved away and half repulsed 
me. That comes of being brought up 
without ladies’ society, for I can hard- 
ly call Cousin Polly a lady. I do not 
wonder he shrinks from her, for half 
the time she comes in fresh from 
Dobbin’s stable or the onion bed ; but 
I ” — and she looked at herself, dainty 
and nice in her apparel. “Richard 
says he is thankful for one thing — that 
I have not grown careless in dress. 
Well, you are a noble fellow, Silas, 
and a gentleman, and a dear, good 
brother. There he is now, with Leigh 
on his back, going to feed the pigs.” 

The winter passed, and Richard 
made no progress toward health. It 
was near spring, and “if he could only 
pass that,” the doctor said — But just 
then the sad news came that Captain 
Leigh was dead. The failure of his 
firm was the death-blow to him. 
There was no hope for Richard then, 
and he sank slowly but surely to the 
grave. 

He was fitted to go forth into the 
world and bear part in its struggles 
and conquests, but he was deficient in 
those qualities which enable a man to 
endur^ sickness with patience. The 
passive heroism of resignation was not 
in his nature, and his present depend- 
ence developed an innate selfishness, 
which success would have hidden, as 
a full-blown rose conceals the thorn. 
He had planned to be the hero who 
should bring honor and wealth to his 
family. He loved his brother Silas 
with strong affection, but, conscious of 
his own superiority, he expected to 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


73 


win the race in the battle of life, but 
Silas should stand side by side with 
him when the honors were awarded. 
Now, alas ! he walked his room a help- 
less invalid, dependent upon this hard- 
working, patient farmer for a home 
for himself and family. He chafed 
under it till he aggravated his disease, 
an inflammatory rheumatic complaint, 
which of itself demands large drafts on 
patience. Alice never faltered, but day 
and night ministered to him, bearing 
his fretful ness with angelic sweetness. 

“My dear, precious husband,” she 
would say, “ don’t chafe so under this 
trouble; God sends it, and w^e must 
be submissive.” 

“You would sing another song, 
Alice, if you had my tortures to en- 
dure. I have read of martyrs who 
were patient on the rack, but I am not 
of their order. If you will end my 
life by some quick poison or sword- 
thrust, you will confer a blessing on 
me and yourself; but to lie stretched 
here, like a hulk on the rocks, against 
which the sea dashes and vultures 
hover round, I tell you it is terrible. 
I wish I had never been born, now 
that life is a failure.” 

Poor little Alice could only choke 
back the tears, and bathe the invalid 
with her own soft hands, and some- 
times sing him to sleep, as a mother 
a suffering child. It was strange, 
passing strange, that Richard should 
forget that Alice had sorrows of her 
own — her father dead in a foreign 
land, her mother in grief, herself and 


child in poverty, and she also in the 
near jjrospect of becoming a mother. 
The little woman never spoke of her 
own troubles, though her heart was 
heavy with their burden. Day by 
day the strong man grew more impa- 
tient and fretful, till — 

“ There came to her a weary day, 

When, overtaxed at length, 

Both hope and Ipve beneath 
The weight gave way. 

Then, with a statue’s smile, 

A statue’s strength, 

Patience, nothing loth. 

And uncomplaining, did 
The work of both.” 

Not just this either, for hope and love 
never quite gave way; but the loving 
heart could not help the isolation and 
misery which oppressed her at the lack 
of sympathy. She longed to lay her 
head on her husband’s shoulder and 
w^eep there, but repressed the longing 
for fear of giving pain to him. At 
last there came a time when she could 
endure no longer, and turned aside to 
her own room, leaving her husband, 
with a heart full of regret that other 
hands must tend him. When they 
brought her baby daughter to her, she 
smiled and said, “ God sent it, and he 
will help me to take care of her.” 

When Richard died she was able 
to go and sit beside him, and hold his 
hand in hers to the last ; but when the 
struggle was over, she was carried 
back to her bed by the doctor, where 
she lay, weak and helpless, for many 
weary weeks. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE YOUNG FARMER'S JOURNAL, 


‘‘ Yes, niarm, it is curous to see the 
ups and downs, the changes, as you 
say, in this world — (there’s jist two 
quarts and a pint: them is the first 
that ripened in the south paster, and 
you are the only one can have any 
to-day : ninepence a quart, marni, till 
they get plenty). Yes, the changes is 
great, as yon said; but Cousin Silas 
don’t complain none of havin’ ’em 
there; and the widder ain’t strong 
yet : poor thing ! what can she do, 
with two babies on her hands ?” 

‘‘ Sure enough, Polly, and my heart 
aches for her; but it seems sad for 
Captain Leigh’s daughter to have no 
other home than a Go-Down farm.” 

At this speech Polly bridled, and 
her black eyes flashed. 

‘‘There’s many a worse place than 
a Go-Down farm, marm ! Them chil- 
dren is as chipper as squirrels; least- 
ways one of ’em is — the boy; and 
’tother, the gal, grows like a little pig. 


Xo marm, I hain’t got no new-laid 
eggs for you to-day ; every one of 
them is engaged to Mrs. Jones to 
make sponge-cake for her party.” 

With which revengeful speech Polly 
pocketed her change, and taking her 
basket and quart measure, climbed into 
her wagon and bade Dobbin trot to 
Mrs. Jones’s house. 

The gossip ran from door to door; 
and here, too, she encountered ques- 
tions about Cousin Silas. 

“And so, Polly, Alice and her babies 
are staying on at the farm.” 

“ Yes, marm, and the children are as 
happy as kittens.” 

“No wonder; it is a good jfiace for 
them, and fortunate that your cousin 
has no family of his own.” 

“ Yes, marm, I am glad now he isn’t 
married ; but I was mazin’ arnest onct 
for him to marry Sally Poor ; but Sal- 
ly is a hity-tity gal, and has a temper 
of her own. Silas would have got 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


along easy enough with her, but she 
and the widder ain’t no more alike 
than sunflowers and vilets.” 

“Your cousin Silas is a very worthy 
young man, and will not let his broth- 
er’s children suffer,” said Mrs. Jones. 

“ The Rogerses stick together. Miss 
Jones. Silas is as fond of them chil- 
dren as if they were his own. — You 
can have all the eggs. Miss Jones ; 
they’re two and sixpence a dozen in 
the market, but you can have ’em for 
two shillings.” 

Mrs. Jones was not aware that her 
kind wmrds had lessened the price of 
eggs. 

The people of Oldport were not alone 
in their speculations about Alice. The 
poor little widow, with the baby asleep 
by her side, pondered the matter. 
Three months had passed since her 
husband’s death, and she had not re- 
gained her strength. She never com- 
plained, but she was pale and thin, and 
fatigued wuth any exertion. Polly 
recommended herbs, and selected her 
choicest for Alice, and brought her also 
distilled cherry - water, a specific for 
giving strength ; but nothing could 
bring back the elastic step and the 
bright color. 

The long summer days had come, 
and she sat near an open door, with 
her baby asleep by her side, in an old- 
fashioned cradle, the same in which its 
father had been rocked to sleep in his 
babyhood. Her foot was on the cra- 
dle, and in her hands she held some 
sewing — a torn frock of little Richard’s, 
which she was trying to mend, for the 
boy was “ hard on his clothes,” as Pat- 
ty Baker said — when Silas came in with 
this said child asleep in his arms. His 


15 

hat was torn and one shoe and stock- 
ing were missing, but his chubby face 
wore a healthy color, and his soiled 
hands Avere plump and strong. He 
was asleep, and Silas laid him carefully 
down on a lounge and covered him 
with a shawl. Then, turning to Alice, 
he said, “ I found him asleep on the top 
of the hay in the loaded cart. It is 
rather too lofty a bed for him.” 

Silas sat down a moment by the side 
of the child, took off his straw hat, and 
while he contemplated the sleeper, said, 
“ Our little Dick is growing stout and 
strong. I put him on Lily’s back to- 
day, and he rode around the yard as 
fearless as a moss-trooper, and when I 
fed the cows he followed me round, 
saying, ‘I work hard. Untie Si.’ ” 

The mother turned from the baby 
in- the cradle to the boy on the lounge, 
and her eyes filled with tears. 

“I hope. Brother Silas, that a time 
will come when he can return your 
kindness and care. It pains me to be 
receiving so much and giving nothing 
in return. I have been wishing to tell 
you, that at my mother’s death — may 
it be far hence, though — I shall come 
into possession of a sum of money 
with which I may remunerate you, in 
a measure, for your care of us. Not 
for your kindness — no, nothing can re- 
pay my debt to you incurred during 
Richard’s illness. Just now, dear Si- 
las, we have no other home, and it is 
too pleasant a refuge for me to be in 
haste to leave it.” 

Had Alice seen the look of pain on 
the face of Silas, as she spoke, she 
would have paused midway in her sen- 
tence, but he had turned a little from 
her and kept his gaze upon Dick. He 


76 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


could not speak, and, to his relief, the 
babe awoke and the mother lifted it 
from the cradle. It smiled and open- 
ed wide its great blue eyes. Some 
sudden impulse — one of those unac- 
countable emotions that stir us at 
times, as a quick, light breeze stirs a 
lake — led her to carry the babe to 
Silas. 

“Just sec, Silas: these are your 
mother’s eyes, and yours.” 

The little one put out its helpless, 
tiny hands to the uncle. 

“ I believe she knows you,” said the 
delighted mother. “Brother Silas,” 
she said, in a voice which held a grave, 
sad tone, “ if I die while my children 
are young, I give you this child. It 
is a strange gift, but something tells 
me— is it a warning, I wonder? — that 
she would be happier and safer with 
you than with any of my own kin. 
My boy is rugged, and already shows 
great independence: my brother will 
gladly take him ; but my tender flow- 
er here needs just such love and kind- 
ness as you give to helpless little ani- 
mals. Will you promise to keep her 
on the farm?” 

“ I should be sorry to part with ei- 
ther of the children,” said Silas. “You 
must remember that they are my broth- 
er’s children and have a claim upon me. 
I hope they may not be separated.” 

“ It is a pleasant thought,” said Al- 
ice, “and I should be glad to think 
this possible; but now that the idea 
has entered my head to make you 
Ruth’s guardian, I cannot be satisfied 
without your promise.” 

“If you can trust her with me,” 
said Silas, “I will do my best; but 
you are weak and tired now, or you 


would not be talking of death. You 
will live to see the babe grow up. I 
think a ride will do you good this 
warm day. Shall I bring the horses 
round ?” 

“ Yes, if you please — hold out your 
hands a moment.” Then she laid the 
child in them, and said solemnly, 
“Ruth Leigh Rogers. My gift to 
you. Brother Silas, if I die while she 
is still a child.” 

There was nothing awkward in the 
manner of the man with the babe in 
his arms, for he had been accustomed, 
from his boyhood, to handle forlorn 
kittens, puppies before their eyes were 
opened, early lambs that had come into 
the world too soon — before the spring 
daisies, and needed nursing. 

He had a great, tender heart, this 
stalwart farmer. It came to him from 
his mother, as did the deep blue eyes 
that always moistened with the sight 
of suffering, or brightened at the pres- 
ence of a child. He held the little one 
with that careful carelessness, if I may 
use such a contradictory term, that 
comes natural to those who know how 
to tend a baby, but the stiffness was 
in his tongue. Words never came to 
him when he wanted them, and now 
he could only stammer out, “I hope 
you will both live many years,” which 
might imply that he was unwilling to 
accept the charge. This thought oc- 
curred to himself after he had spoken, 
and he added : 

“Your children have as much right 
here as I have ; please not forget that. 
My father gave me the farm, suppos- 
ing that Richard would not need a 
home here. But I should dishonor 
my father’s memory if I considered it 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


11 


all mine now. If you will trust me, I 
will manage your share for you, and I 
believe we can make a pleasant home 
for the children. The baby has my 
mother’s name and my mother’s eyes. 
I could not help loving her with 
which words he turned away, and 
went out to bring the horses round. 

There are people who give their 
souls freedom in writing, but have no 
power to express their emotions in 
words. I know an author who is all 
shyness and delicacy in manner, and 
whose spoken words are few and gen- 
tle ; but when she handles her pen the 
words drop fast and thick upon the 
paper, like red-hot shot from the tow- 
er, and do not cool either, but almost 
hiss and scorch when we read them. 
Silas Rogers, as we have before writ- 
ten, was a reticent man, living a life 
of repression from boyhood, but, like 
many such, who have no friend to 
whom they can unburden themselves, 
found relief in his journal. He had 
kept one for many years. We, who 
write his history, may be allowed to 
read a few pages. These are among 
the earlier entries : 

“ September IS^A. — There is pleasure 
in being a twin, most surely, for Dick 
is a brother to be proud of, but there 
is pain also. Why do we have the 
same tastes, and love the same things? 
I Lave tried to make this different, but 
I cannot succeed. I eat boiled eggs 
at school just because Dick could not 
eat them, but they made me sick. I 
wore a blue necktie because he prefer- 
red a black ribbon ; but Jack Fletcher, 
the dandy of the school, bought one 
just like it, and I was disgusted. I 
am a homely, slow, awkward, dull fel- 


low, and Dick is handsome and smart, 
and yet we like the same food, the 
same books, and — well, it must come 
out — he thinks Alice Leigh the most 
charming girl in the w’orld, and so do 
I. If I live a hundred years and trav- 
el the world around, I shall never find 
another like her. I shall leave school 
and come back to the farm. Dick 
will win. Why should he not? He 
is my twin, my other self; and I shall 
rejoice in his success, but — but I hope 
I shall learn to keep my feelings hid- 
den, thrust down deep into my heart. 
Dick would be unhappy if he knew.” 

October \^tli. — My mother was 
buried yesterday. I wonder if those 
who lose their mothers feel as I do 
to-day. It is not so much grief at her 
loss, as regret that 1 could not go with 
her. It seemed as if she was called to 
go alone through a dense, gloomy for- 
est, and needed me. I wanted to keep 
her hand and lie down with her in 
the grave. Dear, tender little mother, 
who never rode or walked alone, who 
wanted me by her side in the evening, 
and always on stormy days. Now, 
the wind is whistling on the hillside 
where she lies, and the rain is falling 
on her grave. Oh, mother ! mother ! 
if you knew how much I needed you, 
you would speak to me from the dead ! 
I think she was too delicate for the 
hard work which fell to her lot. I 
wonder if my father thought about 
this. He is strong and never tired — 
perhaps he did not see that mother 
was unlike the farmer’s wives near us. 
Her death will be a life-long sorrow 
to me.” 

August 1th, 18 — . — Dick has been 
to Cambridge, and has passed his ex- 


IS 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


amiiiation without a condition. This 
is rare, but he is a fine scholar. He 
will go away soon, and I shall be 
alone. I suppose I shall live on — don’t 
exactly like to die; but life is slow 
here, and father is a man of few words 
and much work. My horse and dog 
are some comfort, and I will increase 
the live-stock on the farm. I think 
the love of brute animals is worth 
something. 

“Alice Leigh rode by here to-day on 
a beautiful young horse. Dick spoke 
with her, and gave her some pond lil- 
ies which I gathered this morning. I 
watched her from the barn till she was 
out of sight, and wondered what those 
lilies would say if they could speak; 
for when I gathered them, I said, ‘You 
are like Alice Leigh.’ How bright her 
eyes are, and what a sweet voice she 
has ! I wonder Dick dare open his 
lips in her presence ! I felt as I imag- 
ine a great rough dog must, on look- 
ing at a beautiful fawn. 

“ Richard has got through one year 
of college, and is growing into a tall, 
handsome fellow. He needs money, 
and father’s investments are not profit- 
able. We must carry Dick through, 
if we sell off the land. He shall have 
all my earnings; for it would be a 
shame to stop him, and our wood-lots 
will bring us plenty of money, in time, 
from the ship-yard. He called at Cap- 
tain Leigh’s during his vacation. He 
tells me that Arthur Fletcher means 
to win Alice. Dick says he is a rich, 
handsome fool ; and my brother tossed 
his great, curly head, and added, ‘If she 
likes him, she isn’t the girl I believe 
her to be.’ But I see he is troubled, 
for how can a Go-down farmer’s boy 


become a rival with the son of the dis- 
tinguished Judge Fletcher? I think 
my brother the handsomer man of the 
tw’O, and a better scholar. Neither 
of them are ’worthy of the beautiful 
creature. Dick can make himself so 
by hard study and self-discipline; but 
should he ever lose his temper in her 
presence, as he did to-day when Meg 
reared, and refused to go, because the 
wrong bits were put upon her by Dick 
himself, why, I should be angry enough 
to say a few words to the boy. I 
take it that a man who will handle a 
fine horse roughly will be rude to a 
woman. 

^^Wovember — . — Dick is more than 
half through college. Our railroad 
stock will prove almost a dead loss. Fa- 
ther is glum, and I feel like filling my 
journal with Jeremiads. What is the 
use? I must live and work till Dick 
is through, then I can go West and 
raise stock on a prairie farm. I have 
collected my brother’s books and put 
them in my room, determined to study 
an hour or two every day. That a 
man is a farmer is no reason why he 
should not improve himself. At any 
rate, the books will keep out sad 
thoughts, and be a resource on rainy 
days. I went to church in Oldport 
yesterday, at St. Paul’s, and saw Alice 
Leigh. She looked like a beautiful 
bird in rich, dark plumage. I caught 
her voice now and then in the re- 
sponses, soft and sweet. How uncon- 
scious she was that her presence w’as 
better than sunlight to the tow -head- 
ed, homely farmer that sat a few 
pews away from her ! Arthur Fletch- 
er walked by her side as she came into 
the vestibule. I must acknowledge 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


19 


that he is handsome, and has the air of 
a gentleman. They were a fine-look- 
ing couple. I came out of a side door 
as they emerged from the central one. 
She bowed and smiled, and said ‘Good- 
morning, Mr. Rogers;’ but Fletcher 
Avas as silent and stately as a cardinal, 
not recognizing me at all, though we 
have sold his family winter-apples for 
ten years. That troubles me not. You, 
Silas Rogers, must be a law unto your- 
self, and must strive to be worthy of 
honor from the best ; then, if the hon- 
or comes, accept it ; if not, know thou 
that the noblest men have trodden 
lowly paths. 

“e/’ itl^ Is^ a7id Sd. — I have been to 
Cambridge to see Dick graduate. I 
was proud of him. He little knows 
how father and I have worked and 
struggled to carry him through. I 
have nothing to regret about that, save 
that we must go without new barns — 
and we need them for the comfort of 
our animals. I have improved the 
horse -stalls with my own hands — 
hauled stones, and made a good foun- 
dation, with earthen floors above them, 
and have made windows and doors for 
ventilation. But such barns as I will 
have, if we build, would take all the 
money we have given to Dick. They 
will come in time, for my brother has • 
fine prospects. I have been as anxious 
about him as mother used to be for 
us when we were children. 

“He was in a brown study during 
the first part of his last vacation, and I 
was afraid that he had involved him- 
self in debt, and I watched for him ev- 
ery evening from Oldport, as mother 
used to look out for us, when we had 
been sent on an errand. One night he 


stayed out till midnight, and tossed and 
turned upon his bed till morning. At 
another time, when he had promised to 
be at home to supper with me, I wait- 
ed for him, but darkness came on, and 
he was still away. When it was get- 
ting late, I harnessed my horse and 
rode in the direction of Oldport. I 
found him, sitting on the ‘ Great Rock,’ 
and at the first glance of his eyes I 
knew that he was troubled no longer; 
for there was such a joy in his looks 
as I never saw before on any man’s 
face. I knew then that Alice Leigh 
had promised to be his wife. I can- 
not say but that for one moment, one 
short space, I stood by that rock like 
a man alone on a ship at sea, who sees 
a fair harbor, where trees, and flowers, 
and the buzz of human life make him 
long to sail onward to the sunny shore 
and anchor his craft, but which is for- 
bidden to him; and he must turn the 
bow and sail away by himself upon a 
lonely sea. Only for a moment, and 
then I knew that my brother was my 
other, better self. I let him talk of his 
happiness, and I took it to myself — • 
held it to my arms, and blessed it, as a 
mother her child. 

“ My grand, good brother ! Love 
has wrought a great work in him, for 
he said, ‘ Si, I shall be a better man 
from this time henceforth, and strive 
to make myself worthy of her love.’ ” 

We omit much of this journal, cul- 
ling only that which relates to the 
characters in our story. We find the 
following written at the time of the 
wedding : 

“Richard and his wife left to-day. 
I watched the train from the orchard, 
as it bore them away. Life looks so 


80 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


bright to them, that I can only rejoice 
in their happiness. She loves Richard 
so entirely, that I am glad that she 
is ignorant of my devotion : it would 
only give pain. I was returning home 
as the sound of the engine died upon 
my ear, when I found father at work 
upon the old barn. 

He left his work and sat down with 
such a gloomy look on his face, that I 
feared he had met with losses. I am 
sorry that hard work and money ab- 
sorb his thoughts and time. He told 
me that we had not only lost our rail- 
road stock, but everything else, save 
the farm, and that much lessened since 
he inherited it. 

“ The blow is heavy, for I had look- 
ed forward to making great improve- 
ments on the place, stocking my farm 
with a finer breed of cattle, and build- 
ing new barns. I must give them up 
and work for daily bread. I sat down 
upon the old rock in the yard that 
evening, and murmured at my lot. 
Why should Dick win all the prizes 
of life, and I draw the blanks ? Why 
was he, my twin-brother, endowed with 
beauty and talents, and I with plain- 
ness and dulness? I wished to throw 
up life as I would a bad bargain. 
Then Lily was sent to me; and cheer- 
ed by this token of affection, life seem- 
ed tolerable.” 

Three years after this date we find 
the following : 

“I see now why my life was worth 
the keeping. Richard, with his wife 
and child, have come home to the farm. 
He is sick and poor, for the firm in 
India has failed.” 

Since father’s death, I have man- 
aged to make the farm profitable, and 


am laying up money, so that Dick will 
be no burden, as he feared; but, on 
the contrary, their presence here is the 
greatest blessing to me. Just to see 
Alice about the house gives me cour- 
age and strength to work. She is 
more beautiful than she was as a girl, 
and more matured in character. There 
are moments now and then when I am 
sorely tried; Heaven help me to pos- 
sess my soul in patience ! Richard’s 
disease affects his nervous system, and 
he is restless and impatient. I have 
heard him speak angrily to his wife, 
who, like the angel that she is, never 
retorts; but her eyes fill with tears, 
and I know how her heart is wounded. 
My whole soul rises in indignation, 
but I can neither reprove Richard nor 
show sympathy for Alice, so I just 
rush out of the house, and take little 
Dick on my shoulder and go to the 
barn, where I forget my trouble in the 
care of my stock. 

“My Ayrshires are beauties. Jessie 
is perfect, and little Dick delights to 
pat her soft neck. She has an intelli- 
gent, motherly expression, and a quiet, 
docile temper. Her head is small and 
shapely, her nose tapering to the full 
muzzle ; her ears are thin and orange- 
colored, her horns widely set on and 
crumpled, and she has a long, slender, 
tufted tail. I have ordered her milk 
saved for the little boy, and he thrives 
upon it. Jessie and Dick are good 
friends. Flora is a good cow, and 
looks gentle and kind as she stands 
in her stall, but Jessie among cows is 
like Meg among horses. Both are 
queens. The new barn gives me pleas- 
ure. Here the boy and I spend many 
hours. The hay is sweet, and also the 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


81 


breath of the cows. The horses know 
my step, and whinny when I enter the 
door. Men may delight in grand 
houses with modern improvements, 
but they cannot be happier than I am 
with my new barn, where are all the 
appliances to make my creatures com- 
fortable. Any farmer who owns a 
barn a century old, that has been 
patched till you cannot find the orig- 
inal, where rats do congregate, and 
where winds whistle through on stormy 
nights — a mouldy castle of rotten 
boards, into which a royal ‘Morgan’ 
or an ‘Ayrshire Queen’ steps as if she 
disdained the place, can appreciate my 
delight when my barn, with its rolling 
doors, its ventilators, its earthen stalls, 
ample windows, and broad, open space 
on floor (my reception-hall) was com- 
pleted. 

“Here Dick (my nephew) and my- 
self spend many hours with our ‘ dumb 
animals,’ I was going to write, accord- 
ing to fashion, but mine are not dumb. 
They tell me their joys and troubles, 
and I understand them, and they un- 
derstand each other. Lily and Bose 
take great pleasure together. The 
dog is getting old, and lies down in 
Lily’s stall a great deal of the time. 
Some^time elapsed before she could 
understand why Bose wouldn’t share 
her food, and used to scatter oats for 
her to eat, dropping them from her 
mouth : but observation taught her 
what the dog liked best; for, finding 
a beef -bone one day in the yard, she 
waited till Bose came up, keeping 
guard over it with her foot. Animals 
that are well fed and cared for become 
intelligent. I am pained at the stolid 
look of endurance or the expression of 
6 


patient suffering of the horses and 
cows that I meet in my walks. They 
are affected, like human beings, by the 
good and ill in their liv’es.” 

If we were to copy the whole of this 
young farmer’s journal, we should find 
much of it better fitted for an agricult- 
ural society than for our images. There 
is little written at the time of Richard’s 
death. Probably Silas found no lei- 
sure, during that sad week, to use his 
pen. Months after that event, we 
read : 

“God help her and myself! We 
are left here with the two children, 
and I must live so near and yet so 
far from her 1 When my brother was 
living, it was a sin to love this beauti- 
ful woman, and I crushed my love as 
an unholy thing. Now I shall never 
reveal it. It is such joy to see her 
from day to day, to hear her voice, to 
listen for her light step on the stairs. 
There have been moments when she 
has laid her hand on my arm, that I 
shrunk as if it were a branding iron ; 
for I knew then that I had not subdued 
my love, and no doubt a confession 
of it would drive her from the house. 
She thought I had not seen my moth- 
er’s eyes in her baby ! As if anything 
in these children escaped my notice ! 
She talked about being a burden here, 
and of separating the children, and of 
compensation to m5 ! Her words 
wounded me like the thrust of a knife. 
I would toil like a slave for her com- 
fort, and would die to make her hap- 
py. She grows thin and pale. I have 
watched her closely, and I can see that 
my brother’s illness and the birth of 
her babe have drawn too large drafts 
upon her strength.” 


82 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


Six months after tliis last entry, 
more than a year from Richard’s death, 
Ave read : 

“ I have consulted Dr. Hudson about 
my sister. She droops and loses 
strength daily; but he cannot define 
her complaint, and she is patient and 
cheerful. I have proposed a change to 
a Avarmer climate ; but she says, ‘ No, 
let me remain here, and keep ray illness 
from my poor, invalid mother, for I 
shall rally Avhen the spring returns.’ 
She loves the open fire, and I have re- 
moved the stove to the entry, and have 
brought out my mother’s brass fire-set, 
and some large easy -chairs from Old- 
port; and she sits there Avith little 
Ruth at her feet, Avhile Dick climbs 
into my lap, and tells me the wonderful 
feats of the horses and the dogs. 

Sometimes I read aloud to her,Avhen 
the children have gone to sleep in the 
evening ; and on one such occasion she 
said, ‘ Why, Silas, how happens it that 
AA^e like the same books? I used to 
think you cared only for farm-AVork ; 
but I find you are familiar Avith the 
authors Avhich Richard and I loved so 
Avell’ Gradually, on those e\'enings,I 
Avas led to tell her of my studies, when 
I felt so lonely after my mother’s death 
and Richard’s departure for college. 
She takes a great interest in the farm, 
and, until the cold weather, Avalked to 
the barn every (fay ; but the ground is 
covered with snow, and she is too deli- 
cate to breathe the air out-of-doors. I 
have filled one of the Avindows with 
blooming plants, and trained vines 
around the Avails, till the room looks 
summer-like ; and when the light from 
the Avood-fire flickers on the Avails, and 
dances on the bright carpet, and she 


sits there, before the candles are light- 
ed, dressed in her Avidow’s cap, Avith 
her small hands crossed on her la]), 
singing soft and low to the babe in the 
cradle and to Dick on the carpet at 
her feet, I sit and look at the picture, 
and thank God that it has come into 
my home. Dr. Hudson rides out noAV 
and then, and prescribes tonics. She 
takes them without remonstrance, but 
says, ‘ I have more faith in the spring, 
Silas ; when early violets and blood- 
root come, you Avill bring them to me 
as a token of good.’ 

May 30^/i, 18 — . — The spring flow- 
ers have come, and I brought them to 
Alice. She Avas sitting in the easy- 
chair, alone in the room, Avhen I return- 
ed from the Avoods Avith a basket of 
blossoms. She smiled Avhen I entered, 
but the light faded from her face in a 
moment ; and as I set the basket on a 
little table near to her, she looked at 
them, and then turning to me, said, 
‘Brother Silas, Dr. Hudson has been 
Avith me,’ 

“‘Yes; I heard the sound of his 
horses’ feet Avhen I came in from the 
lane.’ 

“ ‘ He has told me,’ she said — ‘ for I 
insisted upon the truth — that I cannot 
live till midsummer. The blow came 
suddenly, and for a Avhile I could not 
feel willing to give up life. My tAVO 
darlings ! It is hard, but God knoAvs 
best. I pray that he Avill give me 
resignation. But, Silas, I cannot feel 
it yet. Help me to be strong. Let 
me stay with you to the end.’ 

“Her Avords, softly and tenderly 
spoken though they were, fell on my 
heart like ice. I Avas chilled to the 
raarroAV, and felt my blood groAving 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


83 


cold. I knew that I was deadly pale, 
and that my eyes were fixed upon 
lier, while my lips were motionless. I 
could not speak. She rose, came to 
the small lounge on which I was seat- 
ed, and, sitting down beside me, laid 
her head on my shoulder : ‘ Is it hard 
for you, my brother, to give me up ? 
I should, only be a burden and care if 
I lived — a useless little body, whose 
life is valuable only for the few years 
when these little ones need a mother. 
It is by your unwearied care that I 
have lived till this time.’ 

“As she spoke, her head still rest- 
ed upon me, and I had instinctively 
thrown one arm around her, for she 
was very weak at this time. Her eyes 
sought mine, wondering at my silence. 
I could keep the secret of my life no 
longer, and the long pent-up waters 
overflowed. I revealed my love — the 
love that I had tried to strangle in its 
birth — that would, in time, have been 
a sweet memory had she remained in 
India, or had my brother lived — the 
love that might give her only pain, 
and bring contempt upon me. I had 
thought to carry this secret to my 
grave, but I could no longer hear from 
her lips the fear expressed that she 
was a burden to me, when her pres- 
ence was the joy of my life, my in- 
centive to labor, the sunlight of my 
home. 

“I was surprised at my own bold- 
ness of speech. The old reserve was 
all gone, and my words flowed with 
great rapidity. She heard me with 
her sweet eyes turned to mine, and 
when I ventured to read my fate in 
them, I found such a look in her face 
as thrilled me with delight. There was 


neither anger nor scorn, but, laying 
her left hand in mine, she said, ‘My 
dear brother, I could not live with 
you as I have done, and not learn to 
love you. I see now the secret of 
your strength in your self-discipline 
and unselfishness. I have been trying 
to keep myself from loving you too 
well ; but my life is short, we have no 
time to form new ties. My remnant 
of life must be given to God and to 
my children; but know this, that your 
love will comfort me through the dark 
days that are coming upon me. Had 
I a life to give, I think it would be 
no dishonor to Richard if I gave it 
to you.’ I clasped her in my strong 
arms. I held her to my heart, and 
was blessed.” 

“ October \%tli . — I laid her beside 
her husband and near my mother. 
The child Ruthie, but fifteen months 
old, would go to no one but ‘Uncle 
Si’ for many days after her mother’s 
death. It was a great consolation for 
me to call these children mine. It 
will give me strength to work. God 
helping me, they shall never want ! 

“Dick misses his mother less than 
the little girl. He trots by my side, 
and is happy with the horses and old 
Bose. I carried Ruthie in my arms 
when I went to the barn, during the 
days when she mourned so much for 
her mother. I used to carry lambs 
thus when I was a boy, and it does 
not seem so strange to me as to most 
unmarried men to carry a baby, for, 
after all, babies are little animals, and 
need to be kept warm, fed, and loved.” 

Three years afterward we find an- 
other entry: 

“Dick is a slow scholar, such as I 


84 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


was when a boy. I try to remember 
my mother’s patience with me when 
I teach him. Ruthie, on the other 
hand, is like her father, quick to learn, 
hasty in temper, and bids fair to be 
beautiful. She gives me much anxie- 
ty. By love only can she be control- 
led. When she gets into her little tem- 
pers with the house-keeper, she stamps 
her tiny feet, and flashes lightning 
with her eyes. If I look at her in sor- 
row she is hushed at once, and lisps 


out, ‘ I be good, I be good. Uncle Si, 
only love me.’ God only knows how 
I love her !” 

The years passed quietly in Rock 
Farm. Silas Rogers worked hard and 
studied hard, for his books had be- 
come too dear to be given up. The 
children were sent to school, but Uncle 
Silas taught- them as much at home as 
they learned there. The nature of his 
studies and his progress therein will 
be learned in the next chapter. 




CHAPTER VIL 

HOW THE GOLD MINE WAS FOUND.— AUNT BETSEY'S DREAM FUL- 

FILLED. 


It was midnight, but the harvest 
moon rode high in a cloudless heav- 
en, and in its light the farm-house and 
its surroundings stood out sharp and 
clear as a cameo cutting. Pictures of 
the great elms, with all their droop- 
ing branches, lay upon the greensward, 
sketched by a silent, invisible artist. 
Over house and barn, meadow and 
pasture, a great silence brooded. The 
only sounds heard were the faint notes 
of some bird of night in the distant 
pine-grove, the fall of a ripe apple in 
the orchard, or the dull thud of Sala- 
din’s iron-shod feet on the earthen 
floor of his stable. He saw the bright- 
ness without, and, sensitive to such im- 
pressions, longed for a stride up the 
hill -side. The bowlders, with their 
lichened sides, the stone-walls, and the 
great masses of flat rock, whose foun- 
dations were rooted deep in the soil, 
caught the moonlight, and gave it back 
to the glistening foliage of the bayber- 
ry and the racemes of the golden-rod. 


It was one of those glorious pauses 
in this world which recall that verse 
in the Apocalypse, ‘‘ There was silence 
in heaven” — a silence in which there 
was more adoration than in the mel- 
ody of celestial choirs. Beautiful as 
the night was, the tired dwellers of 
‘‘Go -down” were asleep, wrapped in 
that blissful slumber which comes af- 
ter a day of labor in the fields, and 
which no moonlight could unseal. 
There was one exception: out from 
the side door of his house Silas Rog- 
ers issued, clad in a blouse, with a drill 
and pickaxe in his hand. He had not 
come out to see the beauty of the 
night, but seeing it, his eyes brighten- 
ed and his soul glowed within him. 
He climbed the rising ground in the 
rear of his house, and, sitting down 
on one of the bowlders, drank in the 
glory of the heavens and earth. He 
forgot his errand, till the clear air 
brought to him the faint sound of an 
Oldport clock striking one. He rose, 


86 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


took liis tools, and ^yol•kecI steadily 
witli pickaxe and drill upon the rocks 
in the old orchard till four o’clock in 
the morning. 

He had shouldered his tools and was 
turning homeward, when Polly came 
to meet him. Polly had changed lit- 
tle from her girlhood. She looked old 
then, almost as old as she now did, 
only her face was now wrinkled with 
years, and brown as leather from con- 
stant exposure to sun and air ; but she 
walked with as quick a step and her 
black eyes were brighter and shrewder 
than of old. She admired the tasteful 
dresses of Mrs. Richard when she came 
from India, and often sat and survey- 
ed the lady as if she were gazing at a 
beautiful picture, but it never entered 
her head that she might thereby learn 
to improve her own toilet. She took 
a pride in Ruth’^ beauty, and thought 
the child inherited a right to wear 
pretty dresses; but as for her, Polly 
Kiar, she knew her place in life, and 
never had a doubt that she was born 
to earn a living by picking berries 
and raising chickens in summer, and 
binding shoes in winter. She had 
no desire to make money by specula- 
tion. The savings-bank in which her 
father and Aunt Betsey had placed 
their surplus earnings was her castle. 
She had perfect confidence in its sta- 
bility, and I am happy to add that her 
confidence was not misplaced. Her 
four and five per cent, accumulated 
year by year, and was added to the 
principal, for Polly’s wants were so 
few that she seldom drew money out, 
but more frequently deposited it. The 
romance of her life, the dream of her 
sleeping and waking hours, was that 


some day she would find a deposit of 
gold in the rocks around her house. 
It was this hope that made beriy-pick- 
inc: the delight of her life. When Si- 
las met her on that September morn- 
ing, she little guessed what was his ob- 
ject. She was out after golden-rod, 
autumn leaves, thistles, and the seed- 
vessels of milk- weed, which some of 
her customers had ordered. ‘‘What 
they want of such rubbish I can’t im- 
agine,” she said, “ but as long as they 
pay for it I will carry it to them.” 

Si smiled, and looking round for a 
moment, said, “I will help you, Pol- 
ly;” and in a short time he had made 
such a collection of mosses, ferns, and 
autumn leaves, and arranged them in 
such taste, that even Polly exclaimed, 
“ I do declare. Si, them is ’mazin’ pret- 
ty ! I guess Mrs. Andrews wfill give 
an extra price for ’em. She’s a — 
knows all about bottomry.” 

“She must have taken lessons of 
Carr & Townsend,” Si could not help 
saying. 

“Not she; she wouldn’t say nothing 
to them ship-builders as cheated your 
father.” 

“Well, Polly, I told you the other 
day that my knowledge of books 
might do us both good.” 

“ Yes, and I said to myself, ’tain’t 
his knowing books will do me good, 
but it’s his kindness in trouble. Y’ere 
allers ready to do a kind turn, Si.” 

“ You remember,” added Si, “ that 
you asked me, long ago to tell you 
about the rocks. 

“ Yes, and you did tell me real fairy 
stories about the old rocks, and since 
then the world looks curous and won- 
derful. Oh, Silas, I hope every night 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


87 


to dream of a way down among the 
rocks, where the gold and silver is hid 
away.” 

“You will find it in no such way 
as that, Polly. I believe it is here — 
under us — perhaps under the rocks of 
this old orchard. But sit down here, 
and let me tell you of the labor and 
cost of learning whether it is there or 
not, leaving out the incredible amount 
of toil and money necessary to bring 
it to the surface, after we know of its 
existence.” 

Polly tied her kerchief tighter 
around her head, put down her bas- 
ket, and sat down on a large stone 
opposite to Silas, and looked at him 
with eager curiosity flashing from her 
black eyes. 

“Do you know, Polly, this old 
earth has been undergoing constant 
changes since it was made, and that 
rocks which once lay in regular order 
are now, by the action of water or in- 
ternal fires, volcanoes and earthquakes, 
full of ‘faults,’ ‘slips,’ ‘throws,’ ‘trou- 
bles.’ There may be lead or silver 
in the rocks under our feet, and if 
I should bore down with great labor 
and find it, I should not be certain 
even then that it would pay for the 
trouble of getting it. I must bore 
many times to be sure that I had 
struck a true vein. You see, Polly, 
the precious metals are not found, as- 
you imagine, in masses, hidden away 
in caves. They lie in beds, and veins, 
and pockets, and these are come at by 
labor and much outlay of money.” 

“ I know, Silas, that lead and sil- 
ver are mixed up in the stuns, be- 
cause Aunt Betsey told me how my 
Gransir got it out of them; but I 


thought we should find these stuns all 
in heaps.” 

“Not so, Polly, it would take me all 
day to tell you what is necessary to be 
done, after we have ascertained that 
there are precious metals in our land.” 
He took a piece of chalk from his 
pocket and marked out on the great 
bowlder a sketch, with lodes and 
heaves and cross courses, and then he 
told her of all the machinery necessary 
to the successful working of a mine — 
the pickers, hacks, sledges, mandrils, 
gads, borers, slitters, etc., etc. ; then of 
all the dead -work required — shafts, 
pumps, kibbles, partings, engines, lift- 
ing cages, and tram-wagons ; then the 
draining of mines, and last, not least, 
the crushing of the rocks and separa- 
tion of the metal from the ore. Polly 
listened with fixed attention, but with 
a gravity that shadoVed her face and 
dimmed the sparkle of her small black 
eyes. Her fairy dream was passing 
away, and she was waking to the dull 
reality of working -day life. Most of 
us, who have lived to Polly’s age, know 
the heavy heartache of such an awak- 
ening, albeit our dream was not of sil- 
ver in the rocks. 

“ But Polly,” said Silas, “ I know it 
is here, down under our feet. I have 
not studied for five years in vain ; and 
I have examined the lodes, and traced 
the course of these water-worn stones, 
and I have followed the springs and 
marked the stains upon the rocks, till I 
know where the silver is hidden. I 
have made excavations, and have done 
some blasting, as you perceive. Now, 
Polly, I think — but what faults or 
breaks may occur is beyond my knowl- 
edge — there is a vein running from 


88 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


here, under the old orchard, and also 
under the land which belongs to you.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Polly, brightening 
up and rising ; “ that’s where it is, if 
it is anywhere. Silas, it was my be- 
lief ill the silver beneath that made 
me want the land ; but ” — and her eyes 
fell again — “ if it costs so much to get 
it, maybe ‘we’ll die without the sight,’ 
as the varse says.” 

“ No, Polly, I hope not ; only let us 
go to work with our eyes open, and 
with no foolish dreams of sudden 
wealth. I have resolved on spending 
at least five hundred dollars upon 
these rocks. I mean to get the prop- 
er machinery and make a thorough 
exploration,” 

“Don’t you get drawed vortex-like, 
as your poor father was in the railroad, 
and be swallered hull.” 

“I hope not,”*said Silas; “and, as 
M^omen are proverbially cautious, it 
will be well for me that you are my 
next neighbor.” 

The sun had long since risen, and 
now the horn for breakfast rung out 
its shrill notes upon the hillside, and 
Silas obeyed its summons. His step 
was quicker, and something of the old 
buoyancy came back to him. He had 
studied to good purpose, and every 
hour spent upon the rocks only con- 
firmed him in the belief that a vein of 
silver ore lay beneath the rough sur- 
face of the highest land on his farm. 

To add to his pleasure, as he was 
coming into the house fresh from a 
partial bath in water that ran into a 
tub in the shed, he saw Ruth coming 
to meet him. His heart leaped with- 
in him, and he looked earnestly into 
^ her face for one smile or one word. 


Neither came, but still she moved for- 
ward to meet him, and he put his arm 
round her and kissed her forehead ; 
then placed a chair by his side at the 
table for her. 

He was a cautious man, of even tem- 
per, and, after his life-long discipline, 
able to repress undue excitement or 
too great ho^^efulness. Never in his 
life had he coveted money as now — not 
for himself, but for the children whom 
he loved with all the strength of his 
strong nature. He had struggled hard 
since his father’s death, but a bare 
support was his reward. That morn- 
ing he was confident that there lay 
beneath those rocky pastures a mine 
of undeveloped wealth. Nevertheless, 
Uncle Si walked with his usual slow- 
ness to breakfast, when little Dick 
came running to meet him, and said, 
“Why, uncle, we have been looking 
for you all over the barn and yards ; 
and Ruthie almost cried because she 
thought you had gone to Oldport 
without your breakfast.” 

“No, no, Ruthie, I can never go 
away without a morning kiss from 
you,” he said, as the little one came 
to bring him to the breakfast table. 

Silas had improved the moonlight 
nights in completing his investigations 
among the rocks. He shrunk from 
the ridicule of being a disappointed 
gold-seeker. He had not a particle of 
the love of romance and adventure 
which led the early settlers of Cali- 
fornia to leave their homes, or the 
wanderers in the Black Hills to face 
danger or starvation in that desolate 
country, or an encounter with savages, 
the fiercest of all the tribes. Silas 
was cool and wary; but the treasure 


COUSIK POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


89 


was there, he was sure of it, and he 
was sure, too, that he alone could nev- 
er work the vein to profit. He must 
impart his knowledge and make known 
his discovery to experts and practical 
miners. He had determined not to 
do it till he was sure of his ground; 
and therefore he had worked till he 
had discovered a vein and, from dig- 
gings in various localities on the pas- 
ture, was confident that he knew its 
direction. That morning he had re- 
solved to go to the city and bring out 
a friend who had been familiar with 
mining both in Europe and this coun- 
try. It was well that he had thus 
decided, for already, unbeknown to 
himself, the school-boys had begun to 
speculate about these excavations in 
the rocks. It is hard to hide anything 
from boys in woods or pastures. 

“ Uncle Si,” said Dick, that morning 
at breakfast, ‘Hhe school-boys are play- 
ing ‘Forty Thieves’ out in Cousin 
Polly’s pasture. There is a great hol- 
low in the rocks, and it is full of beau- 
tiful pieces of quartz and some ser- 
pentine, just like what they find at 
the Devil’s Den. The boys say Polly 
is going to have a new stone house. 
She’s got lots of money in the savings 
bank — as much as two thousand dol- 
lars.” 

“I wish she would buy that fairy 
story full of illustrations that I saw 
at Tilton’s book-store the other day,” 
said Ruth. 

“And I wish she would buy me a 
knife with four blades,” said Dick. 

“ Which she will never do,” said the 
house-keeper, “ for she thinks books are 
useless, and anything beyond a jack- 
knife would be a great extravagance.” 


“ She gave me a pair of woollen mit- 
tens once,” said Ruth. 

“After you had picked two gallons 
of huckleberries for her,” said Dick; 
“ and she gave me a yarn snow-cap for 
taking her berries to market for her 
when her old horse was lame.” 

“I don’t believe you can tell of an- 
other present she has given you,” said 
the house-keeper. “ She ain’t over-gen- 
erous, though she’s no kith or kin to 
care for.” 

This conversation led Silas Rogers 
to the determination to go at once to 
his friend Adams. 

A few hours afterward they both 
stood together in the old rocky pas- 
ture. Adams was not only a theoret- 
ical but a practical miner. He exam- 
ined all the excavations with a critical 
eye, as also all the specimens which 
had been collected from them. He 
had long before this studied the geol- 
ogy of the region, and had collected 
some valuable minerals from them, but 
below the surface he had never been. 
For more than an hour he walked 
that pasture, sometimes invisible to his 
companion, as, on hands and feet, he 
peered into the deep cuttings which 
had been made. Silas was sitting on 
one of the bowlders, w’atching, with 
much curiosity, the movements of his 
friend. At last the latter, with torn 
garments, mud -covered boots, and 
hands filled with fragments of the 
rocks, came toward him. Throwing 
his collection upon the grass, he sat 
down by the side of his friend, and 
laying his hand upon his shoulder, said, 
“ Silas Rogers, do you own this land ?” 

“ I own to where you see those 
stakes yonder.” 


90 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


‘‘ Who owns that pasture beyond ?” 

‘‘Polly Currier.” 

“Ay ! I know, the huckleberry wom- 
an, with the sharp black eyes and 
shrewd tongue.” 

“ That answers to the description of 
Cousin Polly,” Silas replied, his blue 
eyes twinkling. 

“Well, sir, there is a rich vein of 
silver underlying this land. It begins 
near where we are seated, and runs 
into that pasture in a north-easterly 
direction, and beyond, there is evi- 
dence of gold. I wish I was as sure 
of a fortune, as I am that Polly Cur- 
rier has one under her feet. However, 
it can’t be worked without coming into 
your land. You have more value in 
these few rods than in all the rest of 
your farm. I congratulate you, my 
friend.” 

“ Thank you,” said Silas, in his usu- 
al slow, quiet manner. “I had hoped 
you might confirm my impression of 
the value of the land; but I am well 
aware that it takes capital to develop 
a mine, and I have none. It might as 
well lie there, as it has done since the 
old drift period, when these bowlders 
found a resting-place here — or longer 
still, perhaps, when internal fires raged 
beneath this crust of earth, for all I 
can do to get the ore from its hiding- 
place.” 

“No, no, Silas; don’t spoil a good 
farm by turning miner. Sell your land 
to those who understand the business. 
Be satisfied with the sum which I am 
sure you can obtain, and thank God 
for the small fortune which, will come 
to you in this way.” 

“ I think your advice good, my 
friend, but we must see Polly.” 


“ Just think for a moment, Rogers, 
how crooked things are in this world ! 
Here is that lone woman with the sil- 
ver and gold stored away here for her, 
and what mortal use she can have for 
it, I cannot see ; while I have half a 
dozen children, and a salary of twelve 
hundred only on which to feed, clothe, 
and educate them.” 

Silas smiled, and turning his blue 
eyes to the face of his friend, said qui- 
etly, “ I sold that pasture to Polly for 
one hundred dollars.” 

Adams sprung to his feet. “I de- 
clare, Rogers, you made a narrow es- 
cape from a fortune !” 

“ I sold it before I studied the 
rocks — ” 

“ Of course, of course ; but she was 
no wiser than yourself.” 

“ Yes, perhaps she was.” And Silas 
related the story of the old tradition of 
the silver spoons and the leaden balls. 
“It was so mixed up with tales of 
Shawney, the old Indian w^oman, and 
with Aunt Betsey’s dreams, that I 
thought the whole a romance, an old 
woman’s fable.” 

“ I have always found,” said Adams, 
“ that there is a substratum of truth in 
all popular superstitions and traditions. 
We should investigate rather than de- 
spise them.” 

“I shall take my share and be 
thankful,” said Silas. “In the mean 
time we will see what can be done 
about selling the land, for, indeed, I 
have as much use for money as your- 
self.” 

The twilight had already descend- 
ed upon them when they took their 
way to the farm-house. As they were 
climbing over the stone-wall, Polly was 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


91 


taking Dobbin to the watering-trough. 
A blue cotton handkerchief was tied 
over her head, and her scant calico 
gown tucked up over a faded madder- 
red petticoat, showed her large feet, 
made still larger by the ungainly shoes 
she wore. 

Good - evening. Miss Polly,” said 
Adams ; “ it is pleasant out in ‘ Go- 
down ’ this fine evening.” 

“Wall, most folks don’t call it pleas- 
ant here, sir, and wonder how we man- 
age to live on the rocks ; but it comes 
nateral to me to like ’em, I suppose, 
’cause I was born and raised here. I 
couldn’t be hired now to live in the 
city.” 

“You w’ould find it hard to leave 
your large family,” he added, as twen- 
ty or thirty hens followed Polly’s steps 
as she led her horse toward his shed. 

“Yes, hens is good company for 
me. They take their food without any 
grumbling, which can’t be said of chil- 
dren, and they pay for it, too. Old 
Brownie, there, that short-legged, wad- 
dling critter, has laid ten dozen eggs 

O 7 OO 

since Christmas !” 

“I would like a few dozen of the 
eggs, if you have them,” said the gen- 
tleman. 

“Rather scerce just now, sir. Hens 
never lay well in midsummer. Spring 
is when eggs is plentiful and cheap. I 
am getting thirty cents a dozen for ’em 
now.” 

“I will take all you can spare. Miss 
Polly.” 

The black eves brightened as usual 
when a good customer presented him- 
self, and she asked him to step into the 
house and wait a moment, till she had 
secured her horse for the night. 


Mr. Adams looked round upon the 
homely room, and took a mental inven- 
tory of its scant and ancient furniture. 
“ How will she look upon this in a few 
days?” he asked himself, but he wisely 
abstained from giving her any infor- 
mation about the pasture ; nor did she 
suspect that he had any other design 
in coming to the place than to pur- 
chase new-laid eggs. 

oo 

But the man left with a little envy 
in his heart, of the good luck which 
had fallen to her rather than .to him- 
self. Polly, meanwhile, counted out 
her change : one dollar and forty 
cents. And, as she put it into the old 
black worsted stocking, giving the leg 
of it a hard twist, she said to herself, 
“Twenty dollars in my home-bank, 
and — and — let me see, two thousand in 
the savings-bank — interest running on. 
You’ll not end your days in a work- 
hus, Polly Kiar. That was always 
poor father’s dread: ‘I’m afeard I’ll 
come to the poor-hus, Polly; I’m afeard 
on’t,’ he used to say : and so perhaps 
he would, if it hadn’t been for me. 
What would he say now, if he could 
see how money comes in ?” 

Polly’s romance of the gold-mine 
was something which never affected 
her every-day life. She expected it 
before she died. Her faith never wa- 
vered; but as to any practical use to 
be made of the gold,. that had not en- 
tered into her calculations. Many a 
man looks forward to owning a ship, 
a grand house, or a railroad, as Polly 
looked forward to her gold mine. It 
had been the fairy story of her child- 
hood, the brightest vision of her maid- 
en life, and the hope of her middle 
age. She was busy this week with 


92 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


her berries aud her essences. It was 
the busiest season of the year — her 
haying -time, and Polly was no idle 
woman. 

About ten days after Mr. Adams’s 
visit to the old pasture, Polly was seat- 
ed on her door-step enjoying the fresh 
breeze after a sultry day, and reckon- 
ing her gains, as well as making her 
plans for an early start on the mor- 
row, Avhen a carriage stopped at her 
door, and two gentlemen alighted, one 
of whom she recognized as Mr. Adams; 
the other was a stranger. 

“Wants some more new-laid eggs,” 
thought Polly to herself; “he must 
pay thirty-five cents this time — weath- 
er hot, and great demand.” 

After fastening the horse they came 
toward her, and Mr. Adams introduced 
Mr. Johnson, from New York, who had 
some idea of buying land in Go-down. 
Polly was disappointed in her.custom- 
cr; nevertheless, she brought some 
chairs for her guests, and remarked 
that land around there was not much 
in demand, and as for herself, she 
didn’t own over two acres — that she 
sold berries, and eggs, and yarbs; if 
the gentlemen wanted anything in her 
line, she would be glad to trade. Just 
then Silas Rogers joined the group, 
and explained to Polly that these gen- 
tlemen had been examining the rocks, 
and were convinc'ed that there was sil- 
ver and lead in her pasture, and also 
some gold — that they were men who 
knew how to work mines, and would 
buy the land for that purpose. 

Polly looked from one to the other 
in a sort of mute distress that was 
comical to witness. 

“ Oh, Si !” at last she exclaimed, “ it 


would go agin me terribly to part 
with my paster. It has been the a 2 > 
l^lp of my eye. I alius thought, some- 
how, I should find the gold and silver 
down there, myself; but you have ex- 
jDlained it all to me. I understand now 
that cannot be ; but it seems to me I 
shouldn’t want to live if I couldn’t call 
the land about this ere house my own. 
My father and my mother died here, 
just in sight of them great rocks, and 
I want ’em right before my eyes Avhen 
I die.” 

“You forget, 2 )erhaps, that the gen- 
tleman will 23ay you well for your two 
acres.” 

“Yes, I suj)pose maybe he will, and 
he must remember that it is my living. 
Why, sir, that very paster has been a 
mint of money to me ;” and her black 
eyes shone with a great Shrewdness as 
she sj)oke, which showed clearly that 
the amount in that mint was a secret 
which couldn’t be drawn from her. 

“Well, well,” said the gentleman 
from New York; “perhaps. Miss 
Currier, we can make a compromise. 
I have made many visits to your pas- 
ture within the last week; I think I 
should like to develop the mine. You 
may hold the pasture during your life, 
and all the huckleberries may be yours, 
but the mines and all that can be made 
from them shall be mine.” 

Polly looked relieved, and, turning 
to Silas, said : “ Cousin Si, you own 
land jinin’; what are you going to do?” 

“I have been offered five thousand 
dollars for my share of the mining 
land, and I have accepted.” 

Polly could hardly keep her surprise 
to herself. “ Five thousand dollars !” 
She had toiled all her life, and had 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


93 


thouglit herself rich to have saved 
two-fifths of that sum. Of course, she 
might not get as much, but it would, 
perhaps, be somewhat near; she was 
ignorant of the extent of the vein, or 
bed of ore. 

“And now,” said Mr. Johnson, “I 
offer you thirty thousand dollars for 
your two acres, and give you such con- 
ditions as I have just mentioned.” 

Poor Polly had been brought up — 
no, she had grown, a sharp, shrewd 
trader. She had learned to make bar- 
gains in a small way, and to count 
cents with the exactness of a news- 
boy. She could haggle for a cent 
more per dozen on eggs, or the price 
of a pint of berries ; but now she was 
like one in a row-boat drifted out to 
sea. She was speechless with aston- 
ishment, and had lost all the old famil- 
iar landmarks which had guided her 
when she kept near the shore. Know- 
ing that they waited for her to speak, 
she was dumb, and, with a look of en- 
treaty, rose from her seat and made a 
motion to Si, who, understanding it, fol- 
lowed her into the house. Then, with 
dry lips, she quivered out, “Si, did I 
h ear right ? Thirty thousand dollars 

“ Yes, Polly, I intOnded to prepare 
you for this, but was detained in town 
too late to do so.” 

“ Si, if my father and Aunt Betsey 
were here !” 

“And if — ” Si thought of his own 
father, and of Richard, growing hard 
and bitter from poverty, but no word 
did he speak of his dead, and of one 
who asked a competence for her little 
ones. Calmly he told her that she 
must go back and give her answer to 
the gentlemen. 


“ Tell them,” said she, “ that I accept 
their offer, and leave me alone for a 
minute.” 

Mammon had been this woman’s 
god. She had worshipped him from 
the cradle, and now he had come near 
to her and given her the desire of her 
soul. She was as overwhelmed as the 
lover who gains the object of his affec- 
tions, as the man who wins honor after 
years of seeking, as the artist when he 
realizes his ideal, as the good man 
when he can say with Paul, “I have 
fought a good fight.” 

A paper was prepared for her to 
sign, which she could readily do, for 
Polly was able to keep accounts in 
her way. Then a hundred dollars was 
handed to her to “close the bargain,” 
as Mr. Johnson said ; and they bade 
her good-night, and left her alone in 
her house. She walked back and 
forth in her little room, repeating to 
herself, “ Thirty thousand dollars !” 
Then all at once she added, “ It is all 
a dream ! Just like Aunt Betsey’s 
dream of the gold in the cave.” But 
no, there were the hundred dollars be- 
fore her eyes, and there was a copy of 
the agreement which Silas had made, 
and to-morrow she would receive the 
check for one half of the money, and 
in three months the remainder. Nev- 
er before had Polly spent a sleej)less 
night upon her bed. Her life in the 
open air had made her a good sleeper, 
and she generally fell asleep as soon as 
her head touched her pillow. But the 
words, “ thirty thousand dollars,” kept 
running through her head and chas- 
ing sleep away. Toward morning she 
dropped into a troubled rest for an 
hour or two, and awoke to find the old 


04 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MIYE.' 


clock with its hour-hand at eight, and 
she was always dressed at five. The 
bens gathered at her door, wondering 
why they were not fed, and the pig 
squealed with vexation because he 
had no breakfast. Polly rubbed her 
eyes and wondered, when suddenly 
the events of the last evening occur- 
red to her mind, and she thrust her 
hand under her pillow to assure her- 
self that the hundred dollars were safe ; 
but, strange to say, it did not happen 
to her to doubt at all the necessity of 
harnessing Dobbin, and going to the 
city to carry her produce to her cus- 
tomers. 

‘‘ I shall be too late,” she said, as she 
hastily drank a cup of tea and donned 
her old bonnet and shawl. She had 
little idea that she was an object of 
curiosity as she drove at her accus- 
tomed pace through the familiar 
streets. Arrived at the houses of her 
customers, they congratulated her on 
her sudden accession to fortune, and 
said that they should miss her regular 
calls. 

‘^Wall, I hain’t told nobody that I 
sha’n’t continer to pick berries and sell 
’em,” she said. 

“ Why, Polly,” said one lady, your 
good luck has come at the right time. 
You are not so young as you were — 
over fifty, I believe — and you have 
done your share of berry-picking.” 

“Ain’t so young? l^^'o, ma’am, but 
there ain’t a young girl of sixteen that 
I can’t outrun and outwalk, too, and 
pick more berries in a day than two 
on ’em against me. Still, as I have 
found a fortin under the ground, I 
shall have time to rest and slick up 
round the old home.”' 


When she deposited her money in 
the bank, and also when she received 
at the same time her fifteen thousand 
dollars, counted out and laid before 
her in good bank-notes, the cashier, 
her old friend, Mr. Richards, said, 
“ Well, Miss Currier, what will you in- 
vest in ? Railroad, bank stock, or ship- 
ping, or will you buy real estate ?” 

Polly’s black eyes snapped at the 
word “ railroad.” 

“I hain’t no opinion of them, sir, 
and you know it. Didn’t half of my 
Cousin Rogers’s fortin go out of them 
smokin’ engines, like smoke out of a 
pipe? And didn’t t’other half go into 
ships that sailed the seas, and brought 
no luck to him ? Can’t you take it all 
in here, and give me interest on’t ?” 

“No, Miss Currier, it is against our 
rules.” 

Polly was bewildered. She, too, had 
got an elephant, and didn’t know how 
to dispose of him. She could only 
leave it there for safe keeping, and go 
home and talk it over with Cousin Si. 

It was poor Polly still. Books, pict- 
ures, flowers, an attractive home, trav- 
el, beautiful dresses had no charms for 
her. No children were dependent 
upon her. Of the suffering poor who 
crowd our cities she knew little. Or- 
phans’ homes, and all those institu- 
tions which honor the civilization of 
our age, and appeal so effectually to 
the hearts of the wealthy, were as un- 
known to her as were art galleries and 
libraries. The dream of her life was 
fulfilled, and her only sorrow — now 
that she had certainly escaped the 
“work-hus” — was that Aunt Betsey 
was not alive to see her prophecy 
come true. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


95 


She drove home slowly, repeatedly 
asking herself, “ What shall I do with 
it?” She was later than usual, and 
more tired than she had ever been 
with her hardest day’s work : so much 
more are we wearied with anxiety of 
mind than with bodily labor. 

She fed her family — the horse, the 
pig, and the hens, and sat down to her 
lonely meal. How solitary she looked 
— this lone woman with her little table 
set against the wall, her one slender 
tallow dip, her coarse blue ware, and 
her brown bread and poor tea ! Thir- 
ty thousand dollars in her possession, 
and no blessed thoughts of the wid- 
ows and oi^phans whom she might 
make glad with a portion. Dick and 
Ruthie came in to bring some milk. 
The little girl held in her arms a doll. 

See, Cousin Polly,” she said, “I dress- 
ed this all myself, and I am going to 
give it to Martha Smith. She has no 
doll, and she has lost her father and 
mother, and is going to the Orphan 
Asylum in Oldport.” 

“Wall, will a doll make her any 
happier ? I never had a doll.” 

“Never had a doll. Cousin Polly!” 
exclaimed Ruthie. “I am so sorry 
for you — I have four: Lady Maud, and 
Lord George, and Black Dinah, and 
Peter.” 

“ I should think that was more than 
enough.” 

“ If I only had one that would open 
and shut her eyes I should be happy ; 
but you see such a doll would cost a 
great deal of money, and Uncle Silas 
has none to spare for me now.” 

“ Humph ! hasn’t he ?” 

“ No, I think not ; and then I want 
‘The Fairy Tales’ more than I do a 


doll, and the illustrated edition costs 
ever so much.” 

“How much?” said Polly. 

“Three dollars. I never can save 
money enough to buy ’em — no, never 1” 
And she shook her head to give an 
added emphasis to her words. 

“ What kind of fairy tales are in the 
book, Ruthie ?” 

“ ‘ Cinderella ’ is one. Don’t you 
know ‘ Cinderella ?’ I tell it to Uncle 
Silas often, and he likes it ever so 
much.” 

“ Well, tell it to me,” said Polly. 

The child seated herself on a three- 
legged stool in the room, and told the 
story in her artless way. 

The suddenness of Cinderella’s good 
fortune, and the coming of the prince, 
with his gold and jewels and coach, 
took Polly’s fancy. Without saying a 
word, for she didn’t know how to talk 
to children, she drew from her pocket 
an old-fashioned leather pocket-book, 
and, counting out three dollars, handed 
them to the astonished Ruthie. “^hat 
will buy the book. You can get it at 
Tilton’s, I suppose.” 

“ I buy it 1 Did you mean to give 
it to me ?” 

“Yes, child. You said you would 
like it better than a doll.” 

“And so I should. Oh, Cousin Pol- 
ly, how good you are 1 You are a 
real fairy godmother !” 

She threw her arms round her neck 
and kissed the yellow, wrinkled cheek. 
It was the first time that Polly had 
been kissed since her mother’s death, 
forty years before. 

She turned her back upon the child 
and rushed into the garden to hide her 
emotion. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

WHAT SHALL I DO WITH MY MONEY?— HOW TO MAKE A WILL. 


Polly sat down in Sir’s old arm- 
chair to rest. She was too tired to 
seek Cousin Si that night, and before 
long put on her borderless cotton 
night-cap and short-gown, and went to 
bed. She felt a strange sort of pleas- 
ure in recalling Ruthie’s bright face 
and kiss, and fell asleep with thinking 
of the child. She awoke about mid- 
night, and the burden, ‘‘What shall I 
do with it?” returned with all its 
force. 

The moon had risen. It w’as long 
past midnight, and the usual stillness 
of the hamlet rested upon the spot. 
The night was mild; and, pushing 
aside the curtain of her window, she 
looked out upon orchard and pasture. 

“I think it is all a dream — all a 
dream. It cannot be that I am a rich 
woman. I shall w^ake up some day to 
find it is all a delusion.” 

She tossed and turned, and tried to 
sleep, but all in vain ; then she tried to 
reckon the interest of fifteen thousand 
dollars at seven per cent. It was al- 
most beyond her calculation. “Dou- 


ble that,” she said aloud. Count and 
count, and reckon and reckon, but it 
all brought no sleep. The old bowl- 
ders gleamed white in the moonlight, 
and she could see the rocky sides of 
the sloping pasture. “ I wonder how 
it looks where they have been work- 
ing,” she said to herself; “I heard 
them blasting to-day.” 

She rose, tied a black hood over her 
head, threw an old plaid cloak over 
her shoulders, and w’ent out. She 
thought not of the peaceful beauty of 
the night, nor of the moon and stars 
that shed their light upon her way; 
she only wondered how men dug the 
gold from the dark depths below. She 
wandered up the slope and stood by 
the side of the great rocky gulf which 
had been opened wfithin a week. The 
workmen’s tools were gathered in a 
temporary shed, under which stood a 
small steam-engine and boiler. “This 
looks like work,” she said : “ I am not 
dreaming; no, it has all come true, 
only not just in the way Aunt Betsey 
supposed. I wish she w^ere here to 




COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


97 


see.” Just then a tall figure, clad in 
white, came from the shed toward Pol- 
ly. She started away from him, and 
in her backward movement loosened 
some stones near the edge of the deep 
fissure in the rocks, and fell into the 
cavern below. 

The man who had been left there to 
guard the place, not only from those 
who came from curiosity, but from 
incautious persons who might ap- 
proach too near the treacherous sides, 
saw the night wanderer and heard the 
fall of the heavy stones. He had 
wn*apped himself hastily in a blanket, 
and had come aut to give warning. 
He was too late; and, looking down, 
could only see what he supposed must 
be the mangled form of a dead person, 
for no one could fall thus and live. 
Peering cautiously over, he heard 
groans. “ It is worse than dead,” he 
said; “it would be more merciful if 
the fall had killed him. I’ll do what 
I can,” he cried, “ but I must run for 
help. Don’t think I have left ye to 
die alone.” There were other work- 
men not far from the mine, who were 
aroused, and who managed to lift the 
poor, half-dead woman from her terri- 
ble bed and carry her home. Silas 
Rogers and his house-keeper were call- 
ed. Her groans were fearful to hear; 
and, “ No wonder,” the Irishman said, 
“for she can’t have two whole bones 
in her body.” 

A messenger, with one of Mr. Rog- 
ers’s swiftest horses, was sent to town 
for Dr. Hudson, who, after administer- 
ing a sedative, made an examination of 
the sufferer. She was terribly shatter- 
ed, but the head, protected by the 
thick, stuffed hood, had escaped ; one 
7 


arm and a leg were broken, and her 
left side was much injured. Her rea- 
son was clear, and she understood her 
condition. 

“I know how it all happened,” she 
said. “I thought the dead had come 
to life at my call, and I started back in 
my fright. I knew there was danger, 
and had been walking with great care ; 
but I suppose it was to be. Tell me, 
doctor, the truth. I want to know the 
worst on’t.” 

“Well, Miss Currier, I think we can 
manage to set the broken bones, and 
if the injury to, the side does not baflie 
my skill, we will have you all right 
again in six months.” 

A deep groan was the only answer, 
but whether caused by the bodily pain, 
or the prospect of a long confinement, 
the hearers could not tell. 

By the aid of anaesthetics the bro- 
ken limbs were set, and Polly left a 
prisoner upon her bed. The only 
nurse whom Polly would admit to her 
house was a spinster about her own 
age; an angular and somewhat crab- 
bed person, who was willing to ex- 
change binding shoes for what she 
thought would bring more money, now 
that Polly had become rich. 

It was hard for Polly to keep still. 
She had all her life lived a life as free 
as the squirrels of . the wood or the 
birds of the air, and was as restless as 
these when first caught. Moreover, 
she suffered much. She had great 
power of will, and was hardy and 
tough in every fibre of her body, but 
the wounds in her side, as the doc- 
tor feared, proved very troublesome. 
Martha Grimes had rough hands and 
few of those qualities which make a 


98 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


good nurse. She was loud - spoken, 
heavy footed, partially deaf, and a 
sound sleeper, which last means that 
Polly’s wakeful nights were made 
more wakeful still by the nasal trump- 
et of her companion. 

“ This is what comes of thirty thou- 
sand dollars,” she murmured to her- 
self. “I alius said that I never got 
anything but trouble in this world 
without paying for it — that comes 
without tryin’ for. I expected to find 
my gold mine before I died, but it 
wasn’t in the dream that I should 
break my bones in it.” 

“ You ought not to comifiain, Polly 
Kiar,” said her nurse, “ when you can 
lie there and think of the lots of mon- 
ey you’ve got in the bank, and can 
have everything you want.” 

“Lots of money! lots of money!” 
repeated Polly. “ What good will it 
do me, if I must die? Can I carry it 
with me, Martha Grimes ? Oh, I wish 
I could ! I wish I could ! I wonder 
what comes after death? You see, 
Martha, I hain’t thought much about 
it. I expected to live as long as Sir 
and Aunt Betsey, and I thought may- 
be when I was an old woman I’d get 
down Gran’sir’s Bible — it’s up in that 
corner cupboard, though I hain’t seen 
it for ten years — and the spectacles 
and maybe find out something about 
the other world ; ’cause, you see, I’ve 
an idee there is one.” 

“Why, of course there is, Polly 
Kiar ; and when Elder Pike preached 
in the school-house here last summer, 
he said as how it is harder for them 
that have money to go to heaven than 
for poor folks.” 

“ I don’t see that,” said Polly. “ If 


we have got to leave it all behind, what 
difference will it make? Of course, if 
the doors aren’t as wide as Porch- 
muth Harbor, Squire Bartlett couldn’t 
get his ships in, and Captain Brown 
would find it a mighty big tug to car- 
ry his big money-chest on his shoul- 
ders ; but if we must leave it all, why 
can’t I go in as well as you ?” 

“I dunno; I suppose the elder will 
explain it: maybe it is to make up to 
poor folks for the want of it in this 
world.” 

“ I don’t believe that nuther, Martha 
Grimes, ’cause you see half the poor 
folks are poor because they are lazy, 
and wasteful, and wicked — them are 
not to be paid for their shiftlessness. 
I can’t seem to get the rights on’t, 
nohow.” 

Some days after this conversation, 
when Polly had been suffering greatly, 
she called Martha Grimes to her side 
and said, “Martha, you can read, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“ Read ! Polly Kiar ? That is a 
strange question to ask me. Didn’t 
I go to school three months in a year 
till I was nine years old ?” 

“Then suppose you get the old Bi- 
ble down, and see what you can find 
out about another world in it.” 

Martha complied. The dust of a 
decade of years was wiped from the 
old book, and the woman opened it. 
She was hardly more familiar with it 
than Polly, and had no knowledge of 
the parts most suited to her patient’s 
state of mind. In a superstitious be- 
lief that .all parts were applicable in 
the hour of need, and that the mere 
reading of it was efficacious in sickness 
and death, she began in a loud monot- 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


99 


onous key, — very slowly, and moving 
like a heavy team over a road of 
frozen ruts,— ‘‘ He hath bent his bow, 
and set me as a mark for the arrow. 
He hath caused the arrow of his quiv- 
er to enter my reins. He hath filled 
me with bitterness, and made me 
drunken with wormwood.” 

TYe should weary if we followed 
Martha, as she read on for half an 
hour, semi-blind, and with little com- 
prehension of such words as she could 
pronounce. Polly could only turn her 
head to and fro — the rest of her body 
she was forbidden to move — and try 
to gather sense and consolation, but 
all in vain. Verse after verse rumbled 
on, like the heavy wagon, but failed to 
give her any spiritual light. At last, 
under the influence of her opiate, she 
fell asleep. The next day, Martha 
Grimes, with a sturdy sense of duty, 
opened the Bible again at Joshua, and 
this time in a high tone, somewhat 
nasal, thus she read : “ This then was 
the lot of the tribe of the cliilderen of 
Judy, by their families — the wilderness 
of Zin southward was the uttermost 
part of the soutli coast. And the bor- 
der went up to Beth-hog-lane and pass- 
ed along by the north of Barabah, and 
the border went to the stun of Bohan, 
the son of Reuben.” 

Polly listened patiently for a while, 
but when the last verse came she could 
endure no more. 

I am tired, Martha, and I can’t, for 
the life of me, see what Gran’sir found 
in the Bible that made him read it so 
much. I heard him say once that it 
was meat and drink to him.” 

‘‘I guess as how the elder spoke 
the truth, Polly,” said her companion, 


‘Gvhen he told us that the nateral 
heart don’t like the Word.” 

“Nateral heart!” exclaimed Polly. 
“ You don’t mean to say that my heart 
is unilateral, do you? It is just as 
God made it; and didn’t I love my 
father and mother, and work hard to 
make ’em comfortable? If I have to 
make my heart unnateral to enjoy 
your reading, then I’ll go without the 
Bible.” 

“Jest as you please, Polly, but folks 
as are going to die ginerally take to 
the Bible ; I h^ve done my best to pre- 
pare you for the great change.” 

“Who said I was going to die?” 
asked Polly, in a sharp, high key, rais- 
ing her head as high as her poor lame 
body would allow, and peering with 
her sharp eyes into Martha’s face. 

Poor Martha was confused. The 
doctor had expressed his fears to her 
the day before that there was inter- 
nal injury which would baffle his skill; 
but while he said this to insure care- 
ful nursing, he was unwilling to dis- 
turb the patient with his fears. 

“ I don’t know as you’ll die, but you 
are dreadfully hurt, you know.” 

“Who said I was going to die? 
Martha Grimes, answer me ;” and Pol- 
ly fixed her eyes upon the trembling 
nurse. 

“Well, the doctor said as how we 
must be very careful of you — he didn’t 
know what might happen.” 

Just then there was a little knock at 
the door. Martha opened it and step- 
ped out, returning in a minute. “Who 
was that ?” asked Polly. 

“Only little Ruthie Rogers. She 
comes every day to ask after you, and 
has teased to see you; but I know you 


100 


cousm POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


don’t like children, and I thought she 
would only plague you.” 

“ Go call her back,” said Polly. 

The next moment the child stood at 
Polly’s bedside with such a loving pity 
in her eyes, that Polly couldn’t help 
saying, ‘‘Why, Ruthie, do you feel sor- 
ry for me ?” 

“ Oh, Cousin Polly !” said the child, 
as her eyes filled with tears. “I am 
sorry all the time, and I cried, and 
cried, when XJncle Silas told me all 
about it. You were so kind to me, 
you know, the very last time I saw 
you. You gave me money to buy the 
fairy book, and I wanted to see you 
every day to tell you how much I like 
it.” 

“Did you come every day?” 

“Yes; but Miss Martha said you 
didn’t like children, and I must not 
come in.” 

“ I dunno but Martha was right; I 
don’t think I ever cared much about 
children, do you ?” 

“You never struck us nor hurt us. 
Cousin Polly.” 

“ Struck you ! Mercy onus! I 
hain’t got an unnateral heart yet, 
thank God — hain’t read the Bible 
enough for that, I suppose ; but I used 
to scold you and Dick when you came 
meddlin’ with my berry baskets.” 

“We used to run when we saw you 
coming,” said Ruthie. “ Please may I 
see the pictures in this big Bible,” said 
Ruthie. 

“ La, yes, child ! I had forgotten that 
there were any ; but I remember now, 
when I was a little gal my mother 
showed ’em to me.” 

“ Oh, here is a beautiful one ! ‘ Jesus 

in the Manger.’ Here is Mary, the 

I 


mother of Jesus, and the Babe, and 
Joseph, and the Wise Men.” 

“How do you know?” said Polly. 

Ruthie’s great blue eyes turned to- 
ward Polly in wonder. “Why, you 
see, these are the gifts which the Wise 
Men have brought from the East. 
You know they saw a star and follow- 
ed it, and it stood right over the man- 
ger in Bethlehem.” 

“Can you read?” said Polly. 

*^es, ma’am, I can read this nicely, 
because it is such big print.” 

“ Read a little to me.” 

Ruthie began in a clear, sweet voice : 
“And it came to pass, as the angels 
were gone away from them into heav- 
en, the shepherds said one to another, 
Let us now go even to Bethlehem, and 
see this thing which is come to pass.” 

It was like music to the ear of the 
sick woman; and even Martha stopped 
clattering amidst her pots and kettles, 
and came and sat down in a low chair, 
with her sleeves rolled up, and her soil- 
ed apron turned on one side. The last 
words of the chapter were being read 
when Doctor Hudson entered, and 
Ruthie glided out of the back door. 

The next day came the little, well- 
known tap, and the child was bidden 
to come in. The Bible was ready for 
her, and a high seat, improvised with 
cushions, near the head of Polly’s bed. 

Day after day she came, till her vis- 
its were the events of the poor invalid’s 
life. “A little child shall lead them,” 
murmured Doctor Hudson to himself, 
as he saw with what interest these two 
women listened to this child. Step by 
step the life, and works of Jesus were 
made familiar to the sick woman ; and 
it is a truth that here, in this old New 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


101 


England town, this book was almost as 
new to Cousin Polly as to a heathen in 
a foreign land. Now and then Ruth- 
ie brought her fairy book, and read; 
but though the story of the “Forty 
Thieves ” took Cousin Polly’s fancy 
enough for her to call for a second 
reading, yet the Bible charmed her 
most. “I don’t think there is any- 
thing in the fairy book half so won- 
derful as them golden streets and 
gates of pearl, and clear, rolling river, 
with trees each side of it,” she said. 

“ I can sing about that,” said Ruth- 
ie. “Uncle Silas taught me. Shall I 
sing it to you ?” 

“ Yes,” said Polly, “ though I ain’t 
much given to hymns.” 

Sweet as silver bells the voice of 
the child rung through the room — 

“Tliy gardens and thy goodly walks 
Continually are green, 

Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 
As nowhere else are seen. 

“ Eight through thy streets, with pleasing sound, 
The living waters flow; 

And on the banks on either side • 

The trees of life do grow.” 

Now Polly had little taste for fine 
scenery or the charms of nature; but 
it is impossible for one to live as 
she had done, on the hills and in the 
pastures, gathering flowers and ever- 
greens and autumn leaves, for their 
money value alone, and not learn to 
love them a little. There were germs 
of this love in her heart; and as she 
lay a captive on her bed, she longed 
for the rocks and pastures once more. 
“Oh, Ruthie!” she exclaimed; “it 
-wouldn’t be so hard to die, if I thought 
I should see green pastures and brooks 


and trees again ;” and she added, with 
a sort of grim humor, “ I wouldn’t ask 
for a gold mine on the farm.” 

“ Oh, Cousin Polly ! I guess it is 
beautiful up in heaven. Uncle Silas 
says we must be loving and good here, 
and that will be laying up treasure 
there.” 

“ Laying up treasure there ; wliat 
do you mean ?” said Polly. 

“ Why, that is the verse I learned 
last Sunday : ‘ Lay not up for your- 
selves treasures upon earth, where 
moth and rust doth corrupt, and where 
thieves break through and steal; but 
lay up for yourselves treasures in 
heaven; where neither moth nor rust 
doth corrupt, and where thieves do not 
break through nor steal.’ ” 

The innocent child had no intention 
of sending an “arrow to the white,” 
but it went there, and quivered as it 
entered. Poor Polly ! Under her 
feather-bed was the old woollen stock- 
ing in which she had mended many a 
moth hole, and under her pillow was 
the leathern pocket-book with its steel 
clasp eaten by rust, and out of wUich, 
in all her life, only one gift of love had 
been taken. That night Polly was 
wakeful, not with pain of body only, 
but with regret that, though worth 
thirty thousand dollars, she was very 
poor in loving deeds and kind words. 
A little child was leading her, and the 
way would end in peace. 

Day after day, and week after week, 
Polly lay on her bed ; and though the 
broken bones w^ere knitting together, 
and she was less helpless, yet there 
was, as the doctor had feared, an inter- 
nal hurt that was surely wearing her 
life away. She w^as a self-reliant, fear- 


102 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


less, outspoken woman. With all her 
ignorance and selfishness she was 
truthful, and abhorred all hypocrisy 
and deceit. She suspected they were 
hiding something from her, and she 
insisted that the doctor should tell her 
the truth, which he did, kindly and 
frankly, giving her little consolation, 
save that pitiful one used in extremity 
— “ While there’s life there’s hope.” 

‘^Send Squire Gerrish out to me. 
Doctor. I have some work to do.” 

It is not to be inferred that Silas 
Kogers all this time forgot Cousin Pol- 
ly. Never a morning or night passed 
that he was not by her side. Her gar- 
den and her animals were cared for, 
and nothing was neglected that could 
conduce to her comfort. She always 
seemed more quiet and patient when he 
sat near her. Years and years before 
she had told Alice Leigh that “ them 
blue eyes of his were mighty comfortin’ 
when a body was in trouble,” and per- 
haps she found it so now. I have’ 
found many a beautiful flower spring- 
ing from the rough, rocky soil of that 
region, and beneath this woman’s rude 
exterior there may have been a ten- 
der feeling toward this distant cousin. 
There was in her nature the same pow- 
er of suppression, without his nobility 
of character. The morning after she 
had learned the opinion of the doctor 
in her case, she said to Silas, as he 
came in to see what she needed for 
the day, after looking earnestly into 
his large blue eyes — always expressive 
of sympathy for her — “ Silas, I am go- 
ing to make my will to-day.” 

“There is no harm in that, Polly. 
It can neither cure nor kill; and, as 
you have no near-of-kin to inherit, it 


is well to dispose of your money in 
your own way.” 

“I never thought about it till t’oth- 
er day, when Martha asked me if I 
knew my heirs. Pray, who are they, 
Silas?” 

“That Currier family who are living 
down in Beech Hollow.” 

“What, that lazy, drinking, thrift- 
less varmint, who has no right to such 
a worthy name !” 

“I think he can j)rove his claim.” 

“ Well, then. I’ll give him a hundred 
dollars in memory of his ancestors, and 
you tell him to spend it in making his 
wife and children comfortable. And 
now. Cousin Si, you mustn’t think I 
am a silly woman, if I leave one charge 
to you.” 

“Let me hear it first before I de- 
cide.” 

“I suppose my money is my own, 
and I can do as I please wdth it.” 

“ Of course. Cousin Polly, and quite 
a number have been to me, asking if 
you would leave a few* thousands for 
the City Library, and a few to the Old 
Ladies’ Home, and something for orna- 
mental trees for the city.” 

Polly’s black eyes snapped. “ I nev- 
er read a book through in my life. 
Cousin Si, and I don’t believe in book- 
lamin’; and, as for an Old Ladies’ 
Home, there wouldn’t be need of none 
if children would work as hard for 
their father and motlier as I did ; and 
about trees, why, if I was myself again, 
and they w\anted one, I’d dig some up 
and set ’em out. Let them book-larn- 
ed men do it themselves. No, I have 
got use for my money. I don’t want 
anybody to tell me what to do with 
it ; but what I want you to do is this 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


103 


— build a marble monument over Aunt 
Betsey’s grave, and put her name on 
it in great gold letters. Wouldn’t it 
please her if she could see it ?” 

“Yes, it would, if she retains her 
love of gold.” 

“I have set my heart on’t, Cousin 
Si.” 

“It shall be done, Polly. But what 
about your father and mother ?” 

“ You know, Silas, they didn’t think 
so much of silver and gold. Put up 
white stones, like them over your own 
parents.” 

“And — and your own?” said Silas. 
“ You know we are supposing you 
may not recover, and I should like to 
fulfil your wishes in all things.” 

For once, Polly was not ready for 
an answer. She turned away her head 
as she said, “I thought of it. Cousin Si, 
and — and — ” She hesitated, and then, 
turning back again, met the kind, piti- 
ful look in his eyes and said, “I should 
like a pure, white tablet, as you put up 
for Dick’s wife — and, if you don’t mind 
.the trouble, plant a white rose there, 
like that a growin’ over her grave.” 

For an instant Silas could not reply, 
so great was his astonishment. It 
was the first bit of sentiment he had 
seen in Polly. His hesitation pained 
her, and tears actually stood in her 
eyes, as she said : “ If you don’t care 
to do it, you needn’t. I suppose a 
huckleberry bush would be properer.” 

“You shall have the white rose, 
Polly ; and I will divide the one over 
the grave of Alice, and plant one part 
over your grave, if you die before my- 
self.” 

“ I shall do that. I understand now 
why I have had so little pain lately. 


Death has touched me; and, you know, 
he ends the pain.” 

When Squire Gerrish came to draw 
up Polly’s will, there was little for 
him to do. “Draw it up strong, so 
that them book - lamed lawyers can’t 
break it. Squire. Use the biggest 
words you know, and don’t let ’em 
find any bigger to knock your’n down 
with. One hundred dollars to Jack 
Currier, ’cause his great-great-gran’sir 
was mine also; and one hundred dol- 
lars to Martha Grimes, over and above 
her wage. I’d have given her two 
hundred if she hadn’t said I had an 
unnateral heart, and all the rest. Now 
put in your big words. Squire. I’ve 
beam wills read — ‘real,’ ‘perso;ial 
goods,’ ‘ chattels,’ ‘ give,’ ‘ bequeath,’ 
‘devise,’ these are some, but they 
aren’t big enough. I’ll give an extra 
price. Squire, for strong, big words.” 

“ Yes, yes. Miss Currier, but — ” 

“You needn’t call me Miss Currier, 
Joe. You have allers said Polly Kiar, 
and thirty thousand dollars don’t make 
me nothin’ else.” 

“Well, Polly, you haven’t told me 
to whom you are going to bequeath, 
devise, and give all your fortune.” 

“ I haven’t come to that yet. Squire. 
I want to know first if you can make 
it strong.” 

“Yes, Polly; I have drawn more 
than a hundred wills, and never was 
one broken yet.” 

“Yes, I heard sire say once you was 
’mazin’ good to dror wills. And now, 
when you have put all the big words 
down, add, ‘To Silas Rogers, son of 
Silas Rogers, grandson of John Rog- 
ers, of Rock Farm, in the village of 
Go-down.’ ” 


104 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


“Township of Stoneridge, formerly 
Wessacumcon, County of Essex, State 
of Massachusetts, Province of New 
England, United States of America,” 
added the Squire. 

“Yes, yes, that sounds strong.” 

The Squire laid down his pen and 
looked over his spectacles at Polly. 
“Well, really, Polly, I must say you 
have shown wisdom in the disposal of 
your fortune. The whole city will be 
pleased, for no one is more respected 
than Silas Rogers.” 

“I please myself. Squire; I don’t 
care nothin’ about the city.” 

The Squire smiled, and proceeded to 
business, amusing himself by inserting 
as many words from Blackstone and 
Webster as he could recall for his pur- 
pose. Polly was satisfied with the will 
when it was read to her, and signed it 
with evident pleasure. 

“There’s only one thing more I 
w'ant to do, and there’s nobody can do 
it for me,” and she groaned. 

“ Tell me, and we will see,” said the 
Squire. 

“ Why, I want a great big wax doll, 
'with real hair on its head, that will 
open and shut its eyes, and is dressed 
like a queen.” 

The Squire opened his eyes, and 
feared that the "will, with all its big 
words, would be made nugatory by the 
insanity of the testatrix; but Polly 
added : 

“ There’s Martha Grimes don’t know 
no more about dolls than my Dobbin, 
and I want to keep it a secret from 
Silas, because it is for Ruthie, and — 
and you are a bachelor.” 

The Squire brightened. “I think I 
can help you, Polly. I am going to 


Boston this evening, and I have some 
nieces there who believe in dolls, and 
almost make household gods of them. 

I am sure they will select one to suit 
you. How much money will you give 
for it?” 

“Not less than ten dollars; more, if 
need be. She’s arn’d it — the child has 
arn’d it!” and tears fell from Polly’s 
eyes. 

There was general surprise when it 
became known that Polly had made 
Silas Rogers her heir, and to no one 
was it more unexpected than to him. 

She was so eccentric and ■wayward 
that it w’as doubted whether she would 
make a will at all, and if she did it, 
that it would be, like most wills made 
by those who have suddenly acquired 
money, for some absurd object. 

About noon the next day the doll 
came, and exceeded Polly’s expecta- 
tions. It "was as large as a three 
months’ old live baby. Its hair was 
real liair, and hung in ringlets of gold 
over her snowy neck. A hidden 
spring moved her eyes of blue, a rosy- 
red tinted her cheeks and lips, real 
French gaiters on her feet, while her 
silk dress trained like the robe of a 
queen. A ring sparkled on her hand, 
jewels trembled in her ears, and a cor- 
onet of gems decked her head. She 
was a doll of dolls. Polly bade Mar- 
tha Grimes place it in Ruthie’s chair, 
upon the cushions; which she did, mut- 
tering to herself, “ Money has turned 
Polly’s head; why don’t she give the 
child a warm flannel gown for win- 
ter ?” Ay ! Martha Grimes, why did 
God make lilies to grow down in the 
pond, and bright pinks in the marsh ? 
Why did he clothe the rocks with moss, 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


105 


and crown the low hills with sweet- 
brier rose? If they were all potatoes 
and turnips you would be better 
pleased. 

When Ruthie came in after dinner 
and hung her blue hood upon a peg, 
then shook her curls and turned to 
climb into her chair, her eyes fell upon 
the doll. Polly was watching her, but 
the child, unconscious of anything else, 
was lost in admiration. Her great 
blue eyes opened wude, her hands w^ere 
raised, and a look of wonder and de- 
light shone in her face, but not a word 
did she s|)eak. 

“Do you like her, Ruthie?” said 
Polly. 

“ Oh, Cousin Polly ! I didn’t know 
a doll could be made so beautiful.” 

“ Bring her to me, and I’ll show you 
how to make her open and shut her 
eyes.” 

“ Hasn’t she beautiful eyes ?” said 
Ruthie. 

“ She is your doll, Ruthie, if you like 
her; you have earned it, reading the 
Bible to me.” 

“ But I like to read to you. Cousin 
Polly ; I didn’t do it for any pay,” 
said the child, half grieved. 

“ I know that, Ruthie.; nevertheless 
it has been worth a great deal 16 me, 
and I am glad you like the doll.” 

“Why, Cousin Polly, I cannot tell 
you how much I like it;” and throw- 
ing her arms round the sick woman, 
she kissed her again and again; then, 
holding the doll and caressing it ten- 
derly, said, “May I call it Queen Is- 
abella, after Uncle Silas’s favorite 
queen — the queen, you know, wdio 
gave her jewels to Columbus.” 

“No, I don’t know,” said Polly; 


“ but if Uncle Silas liked her, she was 
a good woman. I hain’t much opinion 
of kings and queens, ’cause Sir allers 
said he fought agen ’em.” 

“But Queen Isabella was good. 
Cousin Polly.” 

“Yes; but I want to hear again 
that chapter beginning, ‘ Let not your 
heart be troubled.’ Isn’t that where 
some one asks Jesus, ‘How can we 
know the way ?’ ” 

“Yes, I can find it;” and laying 
Queen Isabella most tenderly down 
upon the foot of the bed, and giving 
her a long, lingering look of admira- 
tion, Ruthie read the fourteenth chap- 
ter of John. She thought that Polly 
w^as asleep when she had finished the 
chapter, for she did not speak, and her 
face was turned to the wall. “You 
had better take your doll and go,” 
whispered Martha ; and the child, 
clasping her treasure in her arms, ran 
to show it to Dick, whose sympathy 
w’as expressed in these words — “She’s 
a stunner !” and when he saw her eyes 
open and shut, he added — “ Oh, jolly ! 
There ain’t no bran about her, now, is 
there ?” 

“ Don’t you try to find out, as you 
did with Peter,” said Ruthie, throwing 
both arms round her queen. “ I shall 
never dare approach her Majesty, save 
on bended knee,” said Dick, making a 
mock obeisance. 

When Silas Rogers made his call a 
few minutes after Ruthie left, he found 
Polly still asleep, but it was that long 
sleep from which she never w’oke in 
this world. 

Her last words >>'01*6 those to the 
little girl — “How can we know the 
way?” 



CHAPTER IX. 

A FORTUNE FROM THE GOLD MINE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 


Cousin Polly had not slept many 
months in her grave under the white 
stone where the rose-tree had taken 
root, when the quiet of old Go- down 
was disturbed by miners with all the 
implements of their labor. The steam- 
engines were, set to work, and crowds 
of workmen came daily to blow up the 
great rocks, and search far beneath the 
surface for the hidden treasure about 
which Aunt Betsey had dreamed all 
her life, and which she foretold would 
make Polly rich. The silver and the 
gold were there, but how unlike Pol- 
ly’s idea was the way to it! Instead 
of moonlight rambles in caves, where 
gold nuggets could be had for the 
picking, like the berries on the bushes, 
there w^as the puff of the steam-engine, 
and the dredge, bringing more slime 
than silver, the dangerous cage, swing- 
ing over the dark abyss, the smelting 
works with their heat and fume, and 
the pasture and orchard given over to 
the huts of the workmen, and resonant 
with the oath and rude song. The 
mines were a success j but what would 


Polly have said to stock companies, 
and monthly assessments oft renewed, 
before dividends came in? So near 
did all this come to Silas Rogers, that 
he gave up his house, and built a home 
on the beautiful spot where he could 
see the railroad winding its way north- 
ward, and from which he had caught 
a glimpse of Richard and Alice when 
they left for India. “I think I love 
money,” he said one day, when he paid 
Dick’s first college bills, and also, at 
the same time, a bill of books for his 
own library. The love of reading 
which he had formed, when a youngs 
man, to console himself under the self- 
denial of long, weary years, was now 
the source of daily pleasure. Led at 
first by the study of the rocks, which 
were to him life-long friends, he be- 
came a student of nature in a high- 
er sense. The microscope opened its 
wonderful revelations to him; and, 
studying God in his works, he became 
a reverent worshipper, learning from 
the elder scriptures the glory of the 
heavens and the wonders of the earth. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


107 


At fifty years of age, Silas Rogers 
was no longer the bashful school -boy 
that he was when first introduced to 
the reader, but a strong, broad-shoul- 
dered, manly man, who could stand 
before a city audience and discourse, 
with learning and fluency, upon the ge- 
ology of the region, or, with still more 
enthusiasm, upon the wonderful in- 
stinct of dumb animals. 

“ Instinct?” he would ask, ‘‘you may 
call it what you please, but horses and 
dogs can be educated, and will trans- 
mit their higher nature, when thus 
trained, to their offspring. We preach 
a millennium for man ; there will also 
be one for brutes, when man shall have 
learned how to develop their best by 
love and kindness.” 

Silas Rogers never married. The 
white roses grew alike over the graves 
of Richard and his wife, Alice; but 
the violets and pansies were always 
richest and rarest by the green mound 
of the latter, and the path thither was 
worn as much by the feet of the uncle 
as by those of the children. Ruthie 
Rogers inherited the blue eyes of her 
grandmother, and the hair and smile of 
her mother. She was the sunlight of 
her uncle’s life. Dick was a sturdy, 
happy, healthy boy. He was not brill- 
iant, like his father, but made haste 
slowly, like Uncle Silas ; and was 
known in college as the fellow who 
never made mistakes. 

One summer evening Silas Rogers 
was sitting on the door-step enjoying 
the breeze after the heat of a long day. 
Dick and Ruthie had walked to the 
city to evening service, and were com- 
ing up through the orchard, singing 
“Tliere is a land of pure delight.” 


It was one of the favorite hymns of 
his mother, and of her father before 
her. How many times Silas had sat, 
when a child, upon his mother’s, knee, 
and had been sung to sleep by its mel- 
ody ! It carried him back to infancy, 
childhood, and youth. He shook his 
head as he thought, and said: “A hard 
life! Yes, God knows — and he alone, 
the struggle with poverty, awkward- 
ness, and a homely person. And then 
came my brother’s victory and my life- 
long repression — no, no, not life-long, 
for one day of brightness was given to 
me — a day from whence I date that 
new life of mine, which has made the 
world brighter from that hour. And 
now comes compensation. I toiled for 
my. brother, I gave up almost my life' 
for him, and he died in his young man- 
hood. But God has given me Dick, 
dear as the father, and who will be 
the staff of my old age. And Alice — 
well, that star set, but one almost as 
bright has risen — ” Just then his eyes 
were blindfolded by two tiny hands, 
and a kiss was imprinted on his broad 
forehead. 

“ Guess the news. Uncle ! Who is 
nominated to Congress from this dis- 
trict?” 

“ Oh, T know that, little Ruthie — 
Squire Stone; and he will make a 
good one, too. I shall vote for him. 
Now will you give me the use of my 
eyes to see the sunset?” 

“No, not till you guess bettor than 
that;” and she kissed him again. 

“I hope Lawyer Brown hasn’t got 
it. He killed his horse — that noble 
stallion which I raised — by abuse. 
Couldn’t vote for him, Ruthie.” 

“ Why, Ruthie,” said Dick, “ the sun 


108 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


will go down and another rise before 
Uncle Si will guess right; the man 
selected will be the last one he will 
think of.” 

Ruthie still held her hands over his 
eyes, and kissing him again and again, 
said : “ They want an honest man — ” 

“And a man who believes in justice 
to all, without regard to race or col- 
or,” said Dick. 

“And who honors women,” said 
Ruth. 

“ That wasn’t in the speech, Ruthie,” 
said Dick. 

“Well it ought to be,” she replied. 

“ One who will remember the farm- 
ing interest,” said Dick. 

“In short, one who worships God 
and loves his fellow-men. Well, well, 
Ruthie, if I ever have the use of my 
eyes again, I would like to see the 
man.” 

I 

Quick as a flash the girl took her 
hands from her uncle’s eyes, and raised 
a fan, in the handle of which was a 
small mirror. “ Behold him, you dear, 
old, stupid fellow !” 

“Me! Silas Rogers? That cannot 
be, Dick?” turning inquiringly to the 
boy. 

“Yes, Uncle, and everybody is de- 
lighted — men of all parties — and you 
will go in with a rush.” 

A shadow came over the face of the 
man for a moment. This is what he 
had dreamed of for his brother Rich- 
ard. When they were school-boys to- 
gether, and Richard acted on the mim- 
ic stage, or made the school-room echo 
with the burning words of the old pa- 
triots, he had hoped to see him honor- 
ed with office and power. He would 
read his speeches in the intervals of 


his farm -work, and live in his fame. 
The old habit of self-forgetfulness was 
still strong within him. But he was 
a man with an innate ambition, that 
had been curbed by that strong will 
which had enabled him to repress self- 
ishness and live for others. It was 
pleasant to know that he was appre- 
ciated, that his struggles for self-educa- 
tion had not been in vain, and a sin- 
cere interest in his country did not 
render him averse to a little more 
power for good. 

Ruthie looked at him as he mused, 
and a smile lighted her beautiful face. 
“Ay! Uncle, you are the only man 
who doesn’t look pleased at the nom- 
ination. Now don’t you say you are 
going to refuse, because I am going 
with you. I could never trust you 
alone in that great, wicked, fashiona- 
ble city. Who would tie your cravats 
in beautiful knots, and see that your 
linen bosoms were fresh and nice, and 
your hair brushed right? Ay! I can 
see gray hairs — that means wisdom. 
And, Uncle, I shall want some beautiful 
new dresses, and ribbons and laces, and 
a bonnet of bonnie blue silk. If the 
uncle is solemn and good, the niece 
must be gay and pretty.” 

As she spoke. Uncle Silas looked at 
her with those loving, blue, anxious 
eyes, and the shadow deepened. He 
drew her to his side, and kept one arm 
round her for a moment. She remind- 
ed him so much just then of his broth- 
er Richard. Would the gift of beau- 
ty, often so fatal, bring her as sad a 
fate as ambition had brought to her 
father? He held her to his heart, and 
prayed God to spare him sorrow for 
this beloved child. 


COUSIN POLLY’S GOLD MINE. 


109 


There are moments in which we 
seem to forecast the future — when the 
shadow of coming evil rests upon us. 
Silas Rogers rose from his lowly seat, 
and shaking himself a little, as if 
throwing off a troublesome thought, 
said, “ Come, Ruthie dear, the*'sun has 
set, and the air is growing chilly. TVe 
wdll close the house for the night.” 

Some months after this evening, 
when Silas Rogers had learned by the 
overwhelming majority in his district 
in his favor (and that given without 
any money or effort on his own part), 
that old New England still cherishes 
in her heart the love of an honest man, 
he sat again in the same place as when 
Ruthie had given him notice of his 
nomination. After a few minutes of 
thought, he rose and turned his steps 
to the little cemetery. Tall and white 
gleamed the monument to Aunt Bet- 
sey’s memory, and the setting sun shed 
its rays on the great golden letters 
which told her name and age. Far- 


ther on, in a secluded spot, was the 
flower -encircled grave of Ruth Rog- 
ers, wife of Silas Rogers, who died at 
the age of thirty-five. Here the man 
paused. How often the mother is for- 
gotten in the press and hurry of life, 
but when great crises come — of sor- 
row and of joy — the son, even if gray 
hairs are on his head, turns to the 
mother who bore him. When a child, 
the mother had seen, and she alone, 
the struggle and the conquest of her 
plain, bashful, homely child. She had 
sought to give him strength and en- 
durance, and her hand had pointed 
out the way of the cross as the way 
of peace. This evening her teaching 
came vividly to mind, and to the verses 
he once learned with so much difficul- 
ty — “Be kindly affectioned one to an- 
other, in brotherly love ; in honor, pre- 
ferring one another” — she had added, 
“This forgetfulness of self is the key 
of happiness, my boy; but never prefer 
an idle peace to conflict w’ith wu’ong.” 





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